


empires burn in his veins

by EphemeralTheories



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous/Implied Akechi Goro/Mishima Yuuki, Ambiguous/Implied Kurusu Akira/Mishima Yuuki, Angst, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied Akechi Goro/Okumura Haru, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Infidelity, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), References to Depression, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:13:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EphemeralTheories/pseuds/EphemeralTheories
Summary: It took him far too long to realize these hands never truly belonged to him. They belonged to the nation, his father, the public, but never to him.





	1. these ashes hold very little as armor

**Author's Note:**

> *Inhale, exhale.* Okay, so here's the beginning of a multi-chapter fic where I proceed to kill myself with the possible implications of a universe where Shido does claim Akechi as his son and proceeds to use him to heighten his popularity and more or less forces him into submission.
> 
> So, here's a thing. This first chapter is mostly background / set up. Feel free to comment about questions or potential confusion.
> 
> Spoiler alert: Akechi meets Kurusu in Chapter 2, which I'll post within the next couple of days.
> 
> Find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) for little tiny updates and my wild ideas for fics that I may or may not write.

      It first struck him when keys began to seem foreign under fingertips and when ballads no longer danced under the guidance of **his** hands. He thought they became too accustomed to queues trailing from their wrists, the grips he’s trained them to hold around the necks of bottles. He wondered when they started **SHAKING** — a striking contrast to the grasp of a politician’s hands and charismatic waves to the masses.

      It took him far too long to realize these hands never truly belonged to him. They belonged to _the nation_ , _his father_ , _the public_ , but **NEVER** to **him**. They belonged to the men and women he carved his way through in a desperate attempt to find someone worthy of owning them.

The last person who was charged with their care left them shaking.

**They haven’t stopped shaking.**

      Someone needed to own his hands — to completely possess them — to take precedence over the greedy claims already placed upon them and the ones that will undoubtedly follow.                                

He wouldn’t trust **himself** to do it.

Of course, these hands would continue to go through the motions.

They still haven’t stopped **shaking**. —

* * *

      Masayoshi Shido was unfathomable, a monster beyond the ones Goro Akechi had learned of when his mother was still around to tell him stories of knights slaying beasts to protect kingdoms, of kings and queens. Shido was untouchable, feared and respected, the evil step-parent though he was tied to Akechi by blood.

      Akechi wondered how long it would be before his entire being was tainted by the overpowering evil than ran through his veins.

How long would it be before he became a beast forever, until the last petal would fall?

      He would stall the infection by destroying his body — he would become numb to the chaos that thrashed within the confines of his mind. He’d nurse his bloody nose from lines done in the bathrooms of Shinjuku’s seedy bars and drink until he couldn’t remember the events of nights gone by. He would die before he became a replica of his father — until then, he would survive.

He would be presentable when he had to be.

He would don the mask expected of him until the corners of his mouth were caked with blood.

For he had long since learned there were no knights in shining armor, no fairy godmothers, and no love strong enough to turn a monster into a man.

And humanity had already proved so fallible.

He knew he would be no exception.

      Akechi learned this much when his mother waltzed into the living area of their small apartment, a nearly empty bottle in her hands and called him a monster. _Like father, like son_. He was reminded of it when he found the pale and cold form of his mother mere months later. He hadn’t known what death really meant before then.

After all, one princess was risen from the proverbial grave through true love’s kiss.

But that wasn’t real. Nothing he’d known of kindness, of joy, of love, was real.

Akechi shook off the thought. Those memories were best if they remained buried.

_Deep breaths, Akechi. You’ve one job, here. Don’t make Shido look bad._

      “I’m quite proud of my father, actually,” Akechi began, plastic smile tacked into place upon his features. “I have the utmost faith that he will make a fine prime minister for this country,” He paused, a rehearsed laugh passing through his lips, “That’s to say that he certainly hasn’t led me astray.”

      The audience laughed alongside him. The masses were ignorant to the many times that rehearsed countless times in the apartment he’d father so _graciously_ allowed him to stay in. The story the press heard was far different from the reality of the situation. Shido and Akechi stood side by side, speaking of independence — of Akechi’s drive to pave his own way, without Shido’s influence or money. Shido spoke of teaching his son how to manage on his own, a large manufactured grin stretching across his features as he claimed that he would always be there for Akechi if things got rough.

      The reality was darker. With a sneer, Shido expressed his disgust with his bastard child and threatened him not to fail alone. Akechi was far too familiar with what happened to those who crossed his father.

      For a moment, he considered how that must have been when the darkness began taking root in his heart. How Akechi nurtured it, muttering promises to himself to avenge his mother and himself when he had the means. He supposed that was how he found himself in the business of searching for the truth, of serving justice to those who would evade it otherwise. That one day he might be able to show the world what his father really was. After all, a teenager with the wit and intellect of an officer with many years of experience was sure to draw attention.

      Shido had the gall to claim he was proud of Akechi when Akechi’s status as a celebrity of sorts appeared on his radar.

      It seemed even when Akechi was pursuing his own justice, that he just played right into Shido’s _plan_ for him.

      He became all too aware of how he was only a puppet to Masayoshi Shido, a tool, biology be damned. The rules and regulations of what it meant to his son had been drilled into him and made evident by the shades of purple and green that painted the skin beneath the white button down and blazer he wore for this interview.

      Living away from his father hadn’t stopped him from reminding Akechi of his place when he was displeased with some arbitrary thing Akechi had said or done. After all, it wasn’t as if he could afford missing Shido’s prescribed mandatory meetings to make sure Akechi did nothing that could possibly ruin his bid for Prime Minister.

      It was better to suffer by Shido’s hand than by those of his lackeys, he supposed.

      The host of this talk show asked him a few more questions, about tips he might have on how to pass entrance exams, how he truly did intend to become a detective, how his internships were going. He did his very best not to scoff when they asked of his love life. It was dismissed with a simple, “Oh, I’m far too busy at the moment.”

      He didn’t mention how Shido gave him two options, the Okumura company heiress or the SIU’s most promising prosecutor’s younger sister. He swallowed hard every time Shido demanded he choose. It seemed this world’s only mercy was that Akechi found himself able to hold off with claims of how Shido showed him the proper way to live a life: get an education, have a career, and then pursue a family life.

       _“Was that not what you did, Father?” Akechi would ask, faux smiling gracing his features, “I only want to make sure that any children I might have to continue your legacy will want for nothing. My sole desire is to provide for them as you have for me.”_

Akechi swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.

Something told him time was running short on the few mercies this life had allotted him.


	2. flames burrowed a hollow space within his chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But something scratched at the edges of Akechi’s consciousness. Why did the name Akira Kurusu sound so familiar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, excuse me while I retcon something because of how this story wants to play out. Gonna place our boy Akechi as nineteen and in university. ( There’s only one line in the last chapter changed to reflect that. ) And I’m going to say that Akira is a third year student. 
> 
> The whole being sent to Shujin thing did happen but when he was a first year instead of a second year. Let’s just say he kept his head down, created friendships with Ryuji, Ann, etc. but then he went home, only to return Tokyo for his third year. Timelines are hard, guys.
> 
> Also, my bad for any mistakes. I'll proofread in a bit.

      Akechi was ushered off stage after a moment, one of his father’s public relations men commending him on an admirable performance.

      “A performance, you say?” Akechi said, “As if Shido would accept anything less than the truth.”

      The publicist arched a brow at Akechi, who simply wore a pleasant smile in response. They both knew exactly what Shido was capable of. The publicist just had the luxury of being paid a lofty sum to keep him silent — not to mention a lingering threat to reveal to his wife the multiple affairs he was currently engaged in. If anything, Akechi had the pleasure of being the one to demand his services at Shido’s behest, the threat having fallen from his tongue with surprising ease.

      After all, this man was simply a means to an end.

      One day, Akechi was determined to free them both from Shido’s grasp. Until then, sacrifices had to be made. Akechi would do what had to be done, not only to survive this life he was caged in but to eventually usurp Shido’s reign when his father achieved his highest goals. Akechi would send a man who thought himself untouchable, crashing — Akechi would ensure that the floor would shatter beneath Shido’s feet.

      Akechi would fall, too. He accepted this fate when he first chose to pursue justice, no matter the cost, when he first decided that he would rather die than live on his knees.

      Sacrifices had to be made. Akechi had to commit his entire being to this purpose, to serve justice to the one man who seemed above it.

      He carefully crafted a relationship between father and son, wore a guise of undying loyalty, and proved said loyalty.

      He did his best not to flinch when those choices led to blood being spilled by his hand. It has been said to not shoot the messenger, is he truly not guilty? Especially when Akechi knew that Shido was more than capable of forcing someone’s hand.

      If Shido had a teenager arrested for getting between him and his latest conquest, he didn’t want to know what Shido had in store for the woman he was to deliver a file folder to in Research and Development. He did his best to remained unfazed when a corpse appeared a few days later.

      Sacrifices had to be made. The photos of what rested in the folder he delivered to a Wakaba Isshiki were safely stored away on a flash drive. Though it did complicate things that her death had been ruled a suicide.

      Akechi had resigned himself to continuing the ruse, then. _Sacrifices had to be made_. He had to build his case.

      Allying himself with Shido became especially dangerous when Akechi was appointed to the task of pulling a local mob boss into the fray. He would have to influence the man to work for Shido, find ways to keep him under his father’s control. He succeeded, with more than enough to arrest Junya Kaneshiro but gave him over to Shido instead. Turning a blind eye became less difficult. Accepting that he would be viewed as an accomplice when Shido fell was becoming easier to accept.

      He stood strong in his belief that he’d rather crash and burn before he became a reflection of his father.

This was a kamikaze mission indeed.

      The publicist’s phone rang and Akechi walked away, toward his designated dressing room. He was met with an interesting sight. A young man stood before his door, eyes partially obscured behind thick rimmed glasses that glanced between the number on the door and his phone. The lanyard around his neck served as sign enough that his presence was at the very least, authorized.

      Plastic smile still firmly plastered across his features, Akechi approached the young man. “May I help you?”

      The young man turned to look at him, grey eyes seeming to stare right through Akechi, before the young man’s gaze met his own. A plethora of emotion filtered through the storm, but recognition was not something he saw in this man’s gaze.

      Admittedly, Akechi was a bit surprised by that. Certainly, it was not as if all of Japan knew of him, but he thought he made a strong enough impression that his face would at least appear familiar, especially to people who would be considered his peers.

      He brushed off those thoughts, though for soon enough, Akechi would ensure he became infamous. After his father was elected, he would crush the man with years and years of evidence of what kind of man Shido really was.

      This young man was inconsequential to Akechi’s goal. Yet, any help, any good press, if this guy figured out who he was and sold this interaction to the tabloids, would get his name out there.

      The young man smiled, almost sheepishly, running a free hand through unruly black locks. “I look that out of place — huh?”

      “Nothing so crass,” Akechi responded, though he honestly did recognize how little the young man’s outfit cost in comparison to his own. He mentally berated himself for greed was one of his father’s sins, not his. The laugh that passed through his lips was practiced, though — deceptive and effective in veiling his thoughts, “Just simply turned around.”

      “Ah, a good samaritan, soothing the blow to my ego.” The man replied, before answering Akechi’s original question, “I’m actually looking for Ann Takamaki. She’s a model, and a guest on one of these talk shows.” The man’s gaze returned to his phone. A few quick taps on the screen and he was presenting Akechi with a photo of a blond girl, about their age. “She recently got a minor role in some drama, and today’s her first interview like this. She talked a friend and me into joining her backstage for moral support. And I’m looking for her dressing room. This —,” A few more quick taps and he gestured to his phone again, showing it to Akechi before pointing at the door, “is obviously some kind of typo.”

      Akechi’s suspicions were confirmed by the young man’s commentary. He couldn’t help how his features softened at the discovery. The pulling at the corners of his mouth didn’t feel so forced. It truly had been a long while since someone didn’t seem to recognize him. It had been even longer since he was spoken to like a person, not a commodity.

      The young man didn’t seem to notice, though, attention occupied on the device in his hand, likely in effort to contact this Ann Takamaki. “Ah, Takamaki,” Akechi. “I find myself quite unfamiliar with her work,” He spotted a woman with a clipboard a few feet away from them. “if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

      When Akechi requested the information, flashing a signature manufactured but dazzling grin at the woman, quickly gave him the information he required.

      He returned to the young man after but a moment, to him still preoccupied with his phone. “It appears as if you’re on the wrong floor —,” Akechi said, pausing as he waited for the young man to acknowledge him. With his attention, Akechi continued, “I do suppose that in some manner the 2 and the 4 are somewhat near each other.”

      Whatever tension harbored in the young man’s shoulders, seemed to fade as he laughed, “That does sound like Ryuji.” He smiled, and Akechi almost envied how easy the expression seemed to pull at his features, “Can I convince you to escort me?”

      Akechi startled a bit at the request, feeling a rush of heat travel up his neck. “Actually — this, uh, is my stop.”

      “Oh —,” The other man said, a short, if somewhat forced laugh passing through his lips. It was impossible to ignore the strange tension that settled in the air as the young man put two and two together, “So, you’re Goro Akechi?”

      “It seems so, doesn’t it?” Akechi responded, having recovered from his brief lack of eloquence, hoping to clear the strange tension before the young man decided to use that phone he had seemed so focused on to run a search on him. He was almost embarrassed by what he came up with. “Or perhaps I’m a very convincing android?”

      He would have to stop watching the science fiction channel in his free time. After all, aliens in boxes that traveled through time and space didn’t save broken boys and things designed for specific purposes never truly escaped the servitude in their programing.

      The young man actually smiled at that, though. The stranger looked both ways, and though the hall was occupied with others, he gestured for Akechi to lean forward and spoke quietly. “I’ve got a test for that.”

      “Oh,” Akechi replied, intrigued by the conspiratorial gleam in the other man’s eyes, “Do you?”

      “Alright,” The young man said, “did you hear about the two guys that stole a calendar?”

      “No?”

      The grin on the other man’s face grew exponentially then, before he stated, “They each got six months.”

      Akechi audibly winced, pulling back from the other man, though the curve of his lips betrayed his amusement. He heard the stranger laugh in response. “That was terrible.”

      “But, see, it worked.” He said, “You’re definitely real.”

      “Shall I stop the presses —?” Akechi asked, “Surely, we must break the news that I, in fact, am human.”

      The curly haired man smiled, another genuine laugh escaping him. He looked at Akechi for a moment and the detective could only assume the stranger was sizing him up. “Do you really have that kind of influence?”

      “You truly —,” Akechi sighed, “have no idea who I am.”

      “Should I?” The stranger asked, running a hand through his hair once more, “— I don’t really watch TV and only moved back to Tokyo this year.”

      “No, no.” Akechi protested, his expression falling even as a soft laugh escaped him, “it’s actually, quite refreshing. — But, shouldn’t you be joining Takamaki-san?”

      “Yeah, no. You’re right. — Nice to meet you, Akechi-kun.” The stranger looked past Akechi, as if he were about to walk away, but stopped after taking one step. He turned back to Akechi, the smile from earlier still pulling at his features. “I’m Akira Kurusu, by the way. It didn’t seem fair for me to know your name and you not know mine.”

      And then Kurusu actually left, presumably to join Takamaki and the aforementioned other friend.

But something scratched at the edges of Akechi’s consciousness. Why did the name Akira Kurusu sound so familiar?


	3. sharp lines outlined his form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today was promised to Makota Niijima, Yusuke Kitagawa, and Haru Okumura: an officer in training, an artistic prodigy, and a corporate heiress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little insight into how Akechi lives his life. Also, Mishima is a stan in every universe. — I just let Akechi have him in this one.
> 
> Sorry this is a bit late. I'm trying to do weekly updates. Be sure to check my [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) for delays and you know, rants about college life and fic ideas and idk man, let's just be friends.

      Today was promised to Makota Niijima, Yusuke Kitagawa, and Haru Okumura: an officer in training, an artistic prodigy, and a corporate heiress. Akechi was stock still in their presence, specifically Kitagawa’s, though he heard the Okumura heiress moving around in his kitchen. After watching Kitagawa trace the outline of Akechi’s visage for a while, she had excused herself to make coffee.

      “Kitagawa,” Akechi said in a futile attempt to catch the attention of the young man who sat with a sketchpad in hand. It’s not as if sitting on his couch was a particularly uncomfortable position, especially when Kitagawa allowed him one of his simplest comforts, a book in his hand. Akechi’s stance was less posed than his posture for talk shows and far less tedious than spreads that required him to act as an adoring son to a monstrous father.

      Yet, this interaction remained like all others — forced.

      Akechi felt it in the way his cheeks ached, a soft smile layered with manufactured fondness directed at Kitagawa. The artist didn’t seem to notice — and there were no other witnesses. Still, he could not find it himself to let the mask slip. Too often, Akechi’s own behavior reminded him that these few people, ones others would call friends were ignorant to the cards in his hands.

      He long ago convinced himself it was best that they remained oblivious to the ace up his sleeve. Kitagawa, Okumura, and Niijima — who had yet to arrive — needed not to get attached to someone whose time was running out. And it would certainly not benefit them to grow close to someone who was more than willing to throw anything and everything away to achieve his goals.

      Vindication had consumed him, tunnelling his vision towards an end, guiding his hands to means of achieving such an end. The cost had long since ceased to be a factor.

      Akechi had woven himself so intricately into his father’s close circle and though he learned that he could not influence Shido — he was determined to unravel him at the seams.

A abrupt noise amidst the silence of his apartment shook Akechi from his thoughts.

      Makota Niijima entered his line of sight. A message from earlier flashed in his mind. She had alerted them that she was to be held up. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was helping friends from Shujin prepare for his entrance exams.”

      “Friends of Mishima’s, I presume?” Akechi responded, ignoring how easy it was to pull a list of Niijima’s acquaintances from his mind. How much easier it was to narrow them — considering they’ve all met Yuuki Mishima before.

      It wasn’t off color for the 3rd year student to call in a favor for another. After all, as admin for the Akechi’s fan-site, before his father caught wind of his son’s success, Mishima played a pivotal role in jumpstarting his amatuer detective career.

      After all, Niijima and Mishima were two key components of the case he built against a teacher from Shujin Academy. Suguru Kamoshida was behind bars and Akechi was credited with his incarceration.

      Afterwards, Mishima had more or less dedicated himself to Akechi’s rising popularity, especially when he caught wind of cases Akechi could actually solve. Public opinion rose from then on, and every so often, Mishima would still contact him with something that seemed interesting.

      “I’m lucky one only wished to review the basics,” Niijima explained, even as she nodded in confirmation, “but the other was a complete disaster. I’m shocked he was able to make it through his 2nd year.”

      “We all have areas we don’t excel in,” Okumura said, returning to the living area with a soft smile on her face, a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. “That’s what friends are for, to help strengthen us in the areas we might be weak.”

      Akechi felt his entire form tense at Okumura’s claim. ( The change in demeanor hardly showed — Akechi never truly relaxed. )  

      Okumura’s declaration was a blanket statement. He knew that much. It was a generalization — though it felt strangely personal, as all phrases like that generally did. Logic did little to quell the rate at which his pulse quickened or the fury that flooded through his veins at such an accusation. Akechi was not weak — and he would not allow anyone to consider him otherwise. Yet, before he was able react, Okumura spoke again.

      “Though Akechi-kun doesn’t seem to have many of those.”

      Akechi actively forced the grip he held on the book in his hands to grow lax. He willed his jaw to relax but a moment in order to recreate a carefully calculated replication of admiration in response.

      “I wouldn’t be surprised if we found ourselves in Akechi’s debt for the rest of our lives.” Niijima added, a huff of amusement punctuating the statement.

      “Nonsense,” The detective insisted.

      “It is interesting to think about, is it not?” Kitagawa chimed in, closing his sketchbook, “How Akechi has drawn us together?”

      Akechi sighed. They truly had no idea how calculated — how predetermined their acquaintanceships were. Shido had a hand in that of his relationship with Okumura and Niijima, the latter of the two exacerbated by Akechi’s own exploits and Kitagawa was a side effect of Akechi’s investigation of Ichiryusai Madarame.  

      Yet, Akechi said none of that, choosing only to explain his relationship to the corporate heiress, “Okumura and I are merely acquainted because our fathers intend to have us betrothed in the next few years.”

      “It is not something I am opposed to, but I would rather we both have the opportunity to choose our partners for ourselves.” Okumura commented, a gentle smile directed at Akechi.

      “Niijima was also an option,” Akechi added, “though she has made it abundantly clear that she will not take one for the proverbial team.”

      “I hope you know that it’s nothing personal,” Niijima interjected.

      “I understand, Niijima.” Akechi smiled pleasantly, hoping to convey as much, “We all have our own ambitions.”

      “And Kitagawa-kun is simply good company,” The Okumura heiress said, drawing the room’s attention to the artist.

      “I truly owe a debt to Akechi that I could not ever hope to repay. If not for his tireless work against that of my former master, Madarame, I would never truly have the chance to showcase my art. — My passion would have been forever bathed in the shadow of his distorted view of reality,” Kitagawa explained. 

      Akechi didn’t mention how he wouldn’t have noticed that particular scene if not for Mishima. The forums on his website were surprisingly enlightening.

      “That was the case that really put you on the map, Akechi-kun.” Okumura noted.

      “You are quite convincing when you want to be. I am beyond grateful.” Kitagawa said, and Akechi knew if the other man had been standing that Kitagawa would have bowed alongside his statement..

      “My sole interest has always been in uncovering the truth,” Akechi responded, half-truths dripping from his tongue like venom. “To have met you all in the process is reward enough in itself,” He paused, meeting each one of their gazes before continuing. “I can only hope to continue to prove myself worthy of your company.”

      He didn’t mention how he thought his skills were all he could offer them, especially with what skeletons he knew rested in his closet, what lies he crafted to veil their perception of who he truly was, what he was really capable of.

      How he might have freed them but willingly remained a captive himself — all to bring justice to a man who would somehow sowed such great sorrow and pain into his mother that she should take her own life.

      “No, really, Akechi,” Niijima insisted, shaking her head, “Mishima and I would have never been able to prove the extent of abuse our classmates suffered at Kamoshida’s hand, if not for your assistance.”

      “I only did what I thought was right.”

      “Akechi-kun, I do wish you would cease pretending that circumstance is the only reason we remain your friends,” Okumura said, a gentle smile still pulling at her features, “After all, you barely knew me and intervened in my previous engagement.”

      Shido had commanded it, though. — As soon as he’d caught wind, that is. Had it been Akechi’s idea to intervene? Akechi vaguely remembered catching sight of a nearly violent altercation between Okumura and her previous fiance. His thoughts were consumed with images of his mother and the no good man she’d been involved with, the one who was now his rightful guardian.

      It was after Kamoshida and followed Madarame. That’s right, he mentioned her to his father, who took the idea and ran with it. Shido expected his son to play the hero and win the heart of the damsel in distress. Only later had he learned that Okumura was planning a bust of her own. She had been the one with recordings of threats and even more evidence of her ex-fiance’s unsavory behavior.

      Akechi reaching out to her was all she needed.

      “Did you ever stop to think that I perhaps wished to secure your hand for myself?” Akechi asked, then, a diversion to transfer their focus from their relationships with him.

It worked surprisingly well.

      “And that’s exactly how we know that wasn’t the case, Akechi-kun.” Niijima said, a soft laugh escaping her.

      “A truly transparent display.” Kitagawa agreed.

      Akechi considered his transparency, how he felt himself incapable of resembling those around him, so open, so free. The irony of being the one who freed his friends despite their disillusionment that he was the one bearing chains wasn’t lost on him. Akechi smiled anyway, the laugh a farce that he’d grown far too accustomed to conjuring.

      “So, how have you taken to tutoring, Niijima?” Akechi asked.

      “Changing the subject…” Niijima said with an air of accusation, though the smile pulling at her features said otherwise, “We’re onto you, Akechi.” 

      Akechi had the presence of mind to shake his head, “Do humor me.”

      She laughed, before conceding to his request. “So, Mishima grew really fond of this kid from Inaba even though he was here on probation during his first year and then there’s — Ryuji Sakamoto,” Niijima paused, teeth worrying her lower lip,  “I think you spoke to him about Kamoshida and his _leg injury_. — Sakamoto’s the disaster. The other just wants to make sure he’s on track, which I get because he did spend his second year back in Inaba.”

      Akechi had truly not expected to be intrigued by Niijima’s exposition. He leaned forward where he sat, book cast aside as his eyes narrowed at her, “Associating with a delinquent? — Is that truly wise, considering your pursuit of a career in law enforcement?”

      “He’s harmless,” Niijima protested, “His story actually sounds a lot like ours.”

      “If you insist,” Akechi said, “— But if were to tell me his name, I could look into him and find out if your acquaintance is truly as harmless as he claims.” The detective regretted to mention that he would likely press Mishima for information at a later date if Niijima was to refuse.

      “Akechi-kun, it’s really touching to see how much you care, but I don’t believe Niijima to be in any danger,” Okumura interjected, “Mishima certainly seemed a good judge of character. I don’t think he would put Niijima in any potentially compromising situation.”

      “I find myself believing that even if that were the case, Niijima is more than capable of handling herself.” Kitagawa agreed.

      “I think he just wants a new case to solve,” Niijima said, earning a murmur of agreement from both Kitagawa and Okumura.

      Akechi rose his hands in mock surrender. “My concern only rests in how this would reflect on you if something were to happen.”

      That seemed to be the end of that, aside from one final remark from Niijima, “Also, please don’t interrogate Mishima over this. He’s preparing for entrance exams, too.”

      He would allow the matter to rest for a few days, if only because the freedom of his schedule the following night beckoned him with the promise of forgetting who he was — and what he was becoming for at least a few hours.


	4. to willingly consume a poison apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All these hands were on him, around him — pushing, pulling —. Of course, Goro Akechi remembered how to push and pull back, but his hands were too occupied with drinks and cash and coke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm putting this chapter up right now and hope to have another one finished by the end of the weekend for missing last week's update!
> 
> Note: Dear God, I hope this makes some kind of sense.
> 
> Also, talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) if you've got questions or if you want to be friends. ( I could always use more of those. )

      Grey eyes settled on an obscured form across the bar. The form was bright in dim light of the dive, a nearly fluorescent hue drawing their gaze. There’s an empty glass in the form’s hand and a grossly manufactured grin pulling at the its features. — None of the surrounding crowd seemed to notice — they wouldn’t — not with their own smiles tacked into place.

The smile, for what little can be seen of it, is stunning all the same.

      Conspiratorial glances and grins are directed at the form before another man approaches the form, coaxing it into following him. The two disappear into the washroom of Crossroads. Moments pass — the one cloaked in neon exited, hood pushed back, long hair pulled back, a flat bill cap embroidered with the word “HERO” askew on his head.

      The heel of his palm was pressed against his nose — he looked like he was laughing — but something about the expression seemed just as forced as the manufactured grin he’d worn before he disappeared from sight.

* * *

Hᴀɴᴅs, Hᴀɴᴅs, Hᴀɴᴅs —

      All these hands were on him, around him — pushing, pulling —. Of course, Goro Akechi remembered how to push and pull back, but his hands were too occupied with drinks and cash and coke. It’s how he stumbled into Crossroads, flashing a grin at Lala Escargot behind the bar, not even noticing the new unrecognizable dark haired attendant at her side.

      It’s all a blur, as it should be. Akechi briefly recalled the confines of a bathroom stall — some transaction — a few lines of cocaine through rolled up dollar bills. Only one bloody nose tonight — right?

      Akechi had began the trek to Crossroads when he began to notice the tremors running up and down his spine, heard the rapid rate at which his blood rushed through his veins in his ears — and felt all too vividly the eyes of the few men and women who’d followed him into his particular bar boring into him.

_ Deep breaths, Akechi. Slow down. Don’t embarrass yourself again. We already owe Yuuki Mishima too much. _

— Hᴀɴᴅs, Hᴀɴᴅs, Hᴀɴᴅs

      [ These hands were different, though.

They coaxed his gaze to dark eyes, a small smile and a quiet demeanor. 

      He remembered being on the edge of overdose, recognizing the signs and retaining what little presence of mind he had to press his mobile phone into the hands of Lala Escargot and the desperate plea of ‘Yuuki Mishima’ passing through his lips.

      Then, he saw those dark eyes, felt the soft fabric of the pullover shielding his form, and Mishima’s guidance, calm, quiet even as Akechi rambled about the things he’d done, the people who were after him, how his father’s goons were likely trailing them right now, how he’d _pay_ for this indiscretion. 

      Things Yuuki Mishima certainly shouldn’t know.

      Things Akechi would later played off as symptoms of drug abuse.

      Akechi noticed how Mishima kept his hands even busier with cases from the forum on the fansite after that, but said nothing more.

      Akechi, in all his pride, found himself grateful for the boy who’d seen his own share of feeling powerless. 

      In retrospect, Akechi had known Mishima was the only one he could ( would ) call, the younger man having had his own share of darkness — his own power stripped from him, feeling useless, helpless. 

_ Trapped. _

Akechi’s semi-conscious state chose the right man. 

He supposed that was why he kept answering the young man’s requests. 

_ The son of Shido would turn a kind gesture into a business transaction. _

Part of Akechi resented that was what he found himself doing.

      Mishima had been careful with him, letting Akechi push and pull his weight against him. Akechi didn’t think too hard about how Kamoshida’s abuse likely made those mannerisms second nature. It was as if Mishima somehow knew that bruises lined Akechi’s ribcage. From what the detective had said, there was no way a sober Mishima could assume otherwise.

From then on, Yuuki Mishima had been listed as an emergency contact.

In Mishima, Akechi found an extra set of hands. ]

 

      An appointment to meet with Mishima had been set the following day, for Akechi to get down to the bottom of the delinquent business Niijima found herself involved in. But until then, the night was still young. Daylight would remain at bay for hours to come.

      His hunger for the freedom granted to others was insatiable. Ravenous he was in his desire to escape the harsh outlines of the cages that confined him in Kitagawa’s sketches, a simple explanation of being imprisoned by society — by one’s position, by status, by one’s convictions — was offered when anyone would ask.

_ “A detective and a prisoner,” Akechi had noted, expression guarded.  _

_ Like an artist and a hostage — whether to a master or his muses.   _

      So, Akechi had fallen to thrall of extremism, drugs and alcohol diluting the blood in his veins, tempering the evil that would thrive within their confines. He could forget who he was — what he was. And live freely, albeit dangerously. He was no detective, no prisoner, not in the red light district. 

Everyone was invisible in Shinjuku.

      The heel of his palm was pressed against his face, head slightly tilted back when he exited the washroom moments ago. The trickle of blood had subsided as quickly as it began and he was still smiling, feigning laughter at everything and nothing at all. 

Akechi wasn’t gone enough not to recognize the absurdity of it all.

The futility at what he was trying to do here.

He would always be bound by blood. If Shido was Prime Minister, if Shido was a convicted felon, if Shido was a corpse.

He sighed — and decided that he needed another drink.

      Especially since he could still feel the hair on the back of his neck rise at the mere suspicion that he was being watched. — No, _not_ watched. He was being looked through. Undressed, dissected, torn apart.

A depressant would surely counter the paranoia.

When he reached the bar, Akechi was surprised to know the grey eyes framed by thick rimmed glasses — especially when recognition alighted in their gaze. 


	5. his hands shook something furious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were these the eyes so avid in their examination of him that they pulled and pushed at him with vigor that rivaled that of the hands of the demanding masses?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, update time. I'll tell you guys what I told twitter about this chapter, because my muse allowed me to struggle for like two to three weeks about this was going to go down, before throwing out any and all plans I might have had and doing this instead. So, here goes nothing!
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns @ [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or here, of course! Let's be pals!

      The light was extinguished as quickly as it was set ablaze. And before Akechi could open his mouth, the young man behind the counter spoke.

      “What’ll it be?” The man asked, smiling, even as he seemed to absentmindedly dry a glass.

      Were these the eyes so avid in their examination of him that they pulled and pushed at him with vigor that rivaled that of the hands of the demanding masses? Were these the eyes that seemed to want to delve beneath the surface of his armor, however askew it hung in his current state?

      He really needed that drink, but his mouth had other ideas, it seemed.

      “We’ve met —,” Akechi said.

      He was met with silence, a sort of half-hearted smirk pulling at the other man’s features. Akechi knew his mind wasn’t quite as sharp in this state, diluted by lines of cocaine and alcohol. The gears within his consciousness turned slowly. 

      Perhaps Akechi hadn’t recognized how inebriated he was. Part of him acknowledge this could be the case, consider that it wasn’t necessarily uncommon to begin to underestimate the effects of drugs and alcohol when overindulging.

      “You’re not — ?” Akechi asked, finding it both infuriating and intriguing when the smirk on the other man’s face grew at his inquiry.

      “Sir,” The barkeep said, “What can I get you?”

      Suddenly, Akechi was struck with the name that matched this face.

      “It’s Kurusu-san, correct?” Akechi, said, an uncharacteristically expressive grin pulling at his features in victory. 

      The unfamiliar ache in his jaw prompted him to consider how wide his pupils might be blown, if Kurusu could tell what he’d been up to, if he’d born witness to the way Akechi’s palm had pressed against his face, head tilted backward. He wondered if his face was stained crimson — he wondered if it was dark enough to hide the blood if that were the case — he wondered if Kurusu would notice. 

      Maybe, just maybe, Kurusu still didn’t know who he was.

      Allowing himself such generous best case scenarios was dangerous. It’s not as if it really mattered. Kurusu, for all intents and purposes, was a nobody.

      A nobody who didn’t know anything. 

      He supposed the concept of  _envy_ was easier to grasp under the influence.

      And maybe this man didn’t have to know. Perhaps this version of Akechi was as invisible to Kurusu as he was to the rest of the population.

      “And you’re Goro Akechi,” Kurusu responded quietly, a single nod accompany the grin that seemingly refused to leave his features. 

      That hardly answered the swarm of questions that flooded Akechi’s mind. More and More and More — all edged with that tell-tale hint of paranoia. Akechi felt the tremors running up and down his spine with every breath. Was his fidgeting, the almost unnatural way he kept shifting in the seat at the bar noticeable? Was he leaning forward and backward enough in the guise of being engaged in conversaiton to hide it? 

      Right now, Akechi was torn — half of him intent on presenting the pleasant persona everyone knew, another half desperate to leave his mask where it was before this stranger entered his notice.

      “I am — undercover,” Akechi said, the half-truth escaping him with practiced ease, nevermind that he sold himself out not a moment later with the crooked grin that tugged at his lips.

      So what if Akechi had lost count of the drinks he had this night. The lines — well, he never bothered with tracking those. Tell-tale signs were enough. ( If he started counting, that would mean he was out of control and Akechi was very much in control. He would not allow himself not to be. This was one cage in his life he got to dictate. )

      “You’re a cop?” Kurusu asked, then, dragging Akechi from his thoughts. His brow was arched and he seemed tense, but for all the attention Akechi had been giving the man, he could have always had immaculate posture.

      He knew he wasn’t paying enough attention. Right now, he cursed the fact that he’d knowingly impaired the tools he required to truly play the role of the pleasant detective prince.

      But Akechi didn’t scowl at his own inadequacy. He laughed and gave into the absurdity of this interaction because how incredulous it was in how nearly accurate Kurusu had been in his assertion of Akechi's status. 

      “Something of the sort,” Akechi replied without much forethought, “though if I’m to be anything right now, I believe _thirsty_ would be the most accurate description.” The politician’s son smirked, the same look crossing his face now that he wore when he delivered threats to the men under his father’s command who stepped out of line. “Certainly the lovely Lala Escargot did not employ you simply for your penchant of astute observations.”

      Akechi briefly acknowledged that Kurusu didn’t falter at the sight. Instead, he stood fast, quick to respond with a grin of his own painted in all things, that of innocence. “I’m offended and flattered?” Kurusu said, a soft laugh escaping him. “— You’re certainly something, Akechi-kun. Might I offer you a creation of my own design?”

      Akechi wondered how far gone Kurusu thought he was. 

      He wondered if he was right.

      Was this a night he was out of control? Where his limbs still shaking? Was Kurusu seeing right through him? 

      Would Mishima answer if he were to call?

      Akechi said none of these things, though. He asked no questions. Instead, he answered the inquiry directed at him.

      “As long as it’s strong.”

      Kurusu’s grin turned slightly sharper at his response, the edge of innocence discarded as quickly as it was conjured. Or was this his imagination?

      “On the job?” Kurusu asked, the smirk on his lips and the glint in his eyes had to be an effect of the poison in Akechi’s system. It seemed like a challenge and even now Akechi was powerless to refuse the unspoken competition.

      “I would invite you to search my name when you’ve got a moment — but I do rather enjoy this,” Akechi responded, smirk just as sharp as before, “You are quite amusing in your ignorance.”

      “Says the guy who is all kinds of out of his right mind.”

      Akechi scoffed, “Does it displease you to find me as I am?”

      It didn’t register until after the words left his mouth that he would never pose such a loaded question to anyone, especially someone he barely knew, if he were sober.

      “I don’t think I have, yet,” Kurusu responded, sliding a drink before Akechi, one Akechi hadn’t even noticed him make.

      Akechi deposited enough yen for the drink and a sizable tip on the counter before accepting the drink. He stood and turned away from Kurusu. He paused and looked over his shoulder.

      “I give you my thanks, Kurusu-san,” Akechi said, “Perhaps, I’ll return for another shortly.”

      He was fully prepared to quickly empty his glass and escape to the washroom, another line awaiting him. And despite this, Akechi couldn’t quite shake the feeling of eyes on him.


	6. he was lucid in these moments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi was aware of all these things about himself, as well as the fact that he was in his own apartment. This was normal. What wasn’t normal was that he wasn’t alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit out of control. I didn't intend for it to be 2000 plus words but here we are anyway. Now things are really kicking into gear.
> 
> Come visit my [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) for rants about life and weird musings about characters, plus stuff about writing in general. (Here's a freebie. Writing is hard.)

      The alarm was loud, jarring. It prompted Akechi to stir, and thrust his surroundings to the forefront of his consciousness. A pounding headache registered first, followed by the discomfort that comes with wearing tight jeans to sleep, the fabric undoubtedly bunched up in awkward places. It seemed he’d at least removed his shoes before stumbling into bed. His hat was missing, though, and his hair was down now, the tie he’d pulled it up with before leaving last night missing in action.

      Akechi was aware of all these things about himself, as well as the fact that he was in his own apartment. This was normal. What wasn’t normal was that he wasn’t alone. 

      The realization came with the sound of movement to his left and the murmured curse of, “Damn,” escaping the intruder.

      Akechi shot up from where he laid to see a fairly unrecognizable form reaching for a phone on the nightstand, pressing any and all buttons to get the sound to cease. He was certain he would have said something had the movement not catalyzed a sudden rush of nausea.

      He quickly leaned over the edge of his bed, and his stomach emptied its contents into a rather conveniently placed trash can.

      How charming he must be indeed, vomiting before a perfect stranger —. He leaned back up, wiping saliva from this corner of his mouth with the sleeve of this pullover. ( It needed to be washed anyway. ) 

      He pushed the bin further away, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing his hair up and out of his face. The figure from moments before was crouched before him and Akechi was met with storms in the form of eyes. Akechi took a moment to catch his breath and sighed, having recognized the figure but not quite understanding why he, of all people would be in Akechi’s apartment.

      “Kurusu?”

      Kurusu startled at the sound of his name, but smiled, the expression turning sheepish as if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Caught doing what, exactly? Akechi had no way to know. Akechi took a moment to assess his surroundings. The bin wasn’t normally beside his bed and he certainly couldn’t recall placing a glass of water and pain pills on the nightstand next to the phone that had been silenced.

      What really caused him to arch a brow, though, was the chair sitting alongside his bed — easily recognized as one that inhabited his sparsely furnished living area from the dining table he never used.

      Kurusu scratched the back of his head, before returning to the chair that certainly didn’t belong in Akechi’s bedroom. “So, you went out last night and set an alarm for eight the following morning?”

      While his companion seemed hesitant to address the elephant in the room, _his presence_ , Akechi was anything but, immediately saying, “How presumptuous, to ask a question of me when I’m the one whose apartment you are in — _uninvited_.” 

      The slight bite to Akechi’s tone has its intended effect, raising a slight flush to Kurusu’s features, who grimaced in response. “Uh, okay —,” He said, then smiled, easily, as if he were less put off by Akechi’s hostility than he originally seemed. “Got it. Mishima probably leaves before you wake up.”

      Akechi’s eyes widened ever so slightly, mouth falling agape for a quick moment before he quickly snapped his jaw shut. He hadn’t expected Kurusu to be a friend of Mishima’s. 

      He merely tilted his head curiously, and ignored if the forced curve of his lips came across more cruel than pleasant. “Enlighten me, Kurusu — if you would be so kind?”

      “You really don’t remember,” Kurusu responded, seemingly unfazed by Akechi’s demeanour. “You kept coming back to the bar. I kept pouring you drinks. You —,” Kurusu paused and laughed, gaze finding the floor beneath his feet. Surely, Kurusu wasn’t embarrassed. “You have a particular talent of concealing compliments between threats and insults, Akechi.” Akechi resisted the urge to roll his eyes at such an accusation, instead leveling a glare at his companion. “Then, there was a guy,” Kurusu continued, “Do you at least remember him?”

      “Perhaps,” Akechi replied, despite having no recollection. Kurusu had certainly seen enough of his capacity for vulnerability at this point, “if you were so inclined to go into more details.”

      “He was trying to take you home,” Kurusu stated, the grin on his face and the mirth in his tone from mere moments before nowhere to be found. He didn’t say more — as if that were all the information Akechi needed to know. 

      Part of Akechi was infuriated, that a stranger, a nobody, decided to intervene and make a choice for him. It ate at him to know that yet again, someone seized control from him, caged him once more into some preconceived notion of what he should be, given him no option. 

      Akechi didn’t know if the taste of bile in his mouth was from puking or the mere idea that someone had yet again decided something for him.

      “And you would claim dominion over my body?” Akechi said, the accusation coming across calm, despite whatever rage boiled his blood. He met Kurusu’s gaze with eyes wide, mocking innocence. “Am I not allowed — choice?”

      It appeared as if Kurusu had the gall to look startled, but then the other man’s mouth settled into a thin line. He shook his head.

      “Until you can consent, which under the influence, you can’t. Then, no.”

      The silence that fell over Akechi was unprecedented. He had expected something to be said about dangerous behavior, going to bed with some stranger, of how he shouldn’t have been out in Shinjuki in the first place, but he hadn’t expected that under different circumstances, Kurusu wouldn’t have objected. 

      Akechi considered the implications of Kurusu’s claim, that the other man had not so much made a choice for him, but simply did not allow Akechi to be manipulated, put in a position where someone else could take advantage of him.

      Akechi couldn’t believe that such consideration existed. 

      He certainly couldn’t recall an occasion where he’d been on the receiving end of it before.

      Surely, it was not possible for Kurusu to have seen greedy hands and used his own to hold them at bay. Yet, the thought struck something in Akechi, and he found himself no longer wanting to condemn Kurusu for his actions, for his presence. Instead, Akechi stood, took the offered pain pills, downed the glass of water, and took a few steps so that he stood parallel to where Kurusu sat.

      He stopped, an airy laugh escaping him. Clearly, Kurusu had yet to understand one of life’s simplest and cruelest truths. He turned his head and looked down, if only to match the other man’s gaze — perhaps to watch him become downcast by the truth, perhaps to see if it fazed him at all. 

      “ _Consent_ — don’t patronize me, Kurusu, ” Akechi said, “Certainly, even in your life you have learned that there are plenty occasions in life where consent isn’t an option.”

      “Look,” Kurusu said, standing up to match Akechi. Akechi turned completely around then, facing Kurusu. Something had flashed in Kurusu’s eyes at his words. The recognition that had been lacking when they first met shone in shades of grey— what Akechi said obviously struck a chord, “I’m here as a favor for Mishima, okay?” Kurusu continued, “You don’t have to like it, but he said if Lala thought you needed to be pulled from the floor, that I pull you.”

      “You _are_ a friend of Yuuki Mishima’s, then,” Akechi noted, maintaining his calm demeanor. He even went so far as to place a hand on his chin in some contemplative gesture, “— How odd. I thought I might have misheard you.”

      “What’s odd about it?” Kurusu asked, the storm of grey eyes not meeting Akechi’s own.

      “I’ve never known Mishima to have such u _northodox acquaintances_ ,” Akechi said, polite smile pulling at his lips.

      Something shifted in Kurusu at that. Any tension that had risen in his form faded. A smirk began to pull at his features, prompting Akechi to arch a brow at how easily this man’s masks seemed to fall in and out of place.

      “I think unorthodox is one word for what you actually mean,” Kurusu said.

      Akechi found himself nearly incapable of really reading Kurusu, of predicting his next move. It was both fascinating and exasperating, how quickly the tables seemed to turn as they spoke, how Akechi believed himself to have the upper hand at one point, only to have the rug pulled beneath his feet the next. 

      But now was not the time to contemplate such a thing, not when Kurusu, the _unimportant_ barkeep, knew too much. Akechi was aware that he should placate him, and that was what he intended to do. 

He didn’t like the idea of anything tarnishing his impeccable character getting back to Mishima.

      Perhaps Akechi could buy Kurusu’s silence later, find something incriminating to hold over his head, force him to sign a contract. Sae Niijima could draw something up in no time. Until he could shift the balance back in his favor once more, though, pleasantries were his only option.

      “I do not intend to offend.” Akechi offered, bowing slightly, angling his eyes downcast in some imitation of remorse.

      “I get it,” Kurusu said, shrugging his shoulders. Akechi couldn’t help but wonder if the gesture was dismissive or forgiving. It didn’t seem to matter, seeing as Kurusu glossed over the fact that Akechi had said anything at all. “Mishima’s a good kid. Well-behaved, been through hell. — You don’t want to see him fall in with the wrong crowd.”

      “Understand that my intent was to to imply that you…” Akechi insisted, though Kurusu interrupted him.

      “It’s fine,” Kurusu assured, another easy smile pulling at his features, “If I got all up in arms whenever someone had the wrong idea, I’d be behind bars. I guess,” He paused, a huff of amusement escaping him, “I’ll just have to prove my worth.”

      “Everyone has their means to afford what luxuries this life offers,” Akechi responded, refusing to acknowledge how disappointed he felt at how manufactured the compassion lacing his tone was, “If memory serves, you prove to be quite capable of offering the experience that lends customers to tip.”

      A slight laugh passed through Kurusu’s lips. “You don’t have to do that.”

      “Do what?”

      “Pretend. If you don’t approve, go ahead. You don’t have to make what I do look pretty. I’m a teenager, working at a seedy bar in Shinjuku.”

      Kurusu was astute, dangerously so, especially if he could so easily see through Akechi’s masks. Yet, Kurusu hadn’t threaten him with this ability — not yet, at least. If one could so easily dissect what Akechi was thinking, surely they would use it against him.

      And though he hadn’t known Kurusu long, or at all, really, the other man could have easily turned on him by now. Was it because he still didn’t really know who Akechi was? Why did he linger after getting Akechi home? What did Kurusu want?

      He asked none of these questions, though. Instead, he tried to keep the edges of his mouth from curving when he commented on Kurusu’s current occupation, “It is quite lowbrow.” 

      Kurusu still wore that easy smile, “If it helps, I work at a cafe during the day. Well, when I’m not at school.”

      Offering information in exchange for that recieved was polite, Akechi rationalized, even as he opened his mouth to respond, “And I am an officer, of sorts, That is to say you were correct in your earlier assumption. — I do recall that much.”

      “A cop who gets interviewed on television?” Kurusu noted, curiosity lining his tone.

      “A detective prodigy, if you will,” Akechi further explained, hoping Kurusu would allow him to leave it at that, “People have noticed a few of the cases I’ve cracked.”

      Then, seemingly unprompted, Kurusu asked, “So — it’s the pressure?”

      “I beg your pardon?” Akechi responded.

      “It’s not difficult to guess this isn’t the first time,” Kurusu explained, so casual in his observation — in his accusation — that Akechi no longer cared much for pleasantries, even if they were exchanged with someone who seemed capable of matching him for turn of phrase.

      Kurusu needed to leave, now.

      So Akechi could regroup and find a way to ensure that Kurusu would never say a word about what he witnessed at Crossroads.

      So that Kurusu would not so directly challenge him again.

      “I think it’s best if you leave, Kurusu,” Akechi said, donning a mask _worthy_ of the son of Masayoshi Shido, the one the audiences loved to see, the one that would help his father get elected Prime Minister, the polite, charismatic detective prince,  “I thank you for your assistance, but seeing as it is no longer required, I’m sure you are relieved of your favor to Mishima. I apologize for the inconvenience and will ensure that he no longer contacts you on my behalf.”

      “I can take a hint, Akechi,” Kurusu said, smiling despite it all. The other man’s grin was something Akechi was quickly growing tired of, especially because it was a clear indicator that this Kurusu character had somehow, in their brief interactions, had his number. And it seemed, he didn’t plan on losing it. “There’s coffee — instant since that’s all you had. — Maybe, I’ll see you around.”

      If Kurusu, the unimportant man, wanted to play a game, Akechi could find the time. After all, Akechi already knew he was tainted enough ( _enough like his father_ ) that he couldn't leave loose ends. 

      But first, Akechi needed to get ready for the day.

      For he still had a meeting with Mishima to attend to in order to discover the identity of that delinquent Niiijima insisted on tutoring.

And if Akechi helped himself to the instant coffee he didn’t have to prepare for himself, no one else had to know.


	7. the only kindling worthy of catching flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for Mishima’s sake, Akechi hoped he was making a promise he could keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I, a week and a day late on this update? I apologize, but here it is. Maybe the 2,500 words will make up for the delay? Also, I know I said the last chapter got out of control, but even I'm surprised at how this is progressing.
> 
> Let me know what you think in comments or on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha).

      Showered and changed, a gloved hand closed around a cup of coffee, the other occupied with scrolling through the various notifications on his phone. There were reminders of Akechi’s commitments, the meeting with Mishima the first thing on his agenda.

      There were a few messages from his father’s associates, one from Sae Niijima, his mentor at the Special Investigations Unit, and a simple text of approval from Masayoshi Shido in regards to Akechi’s appearance on television yesterday.

      Public opinion was rising — slowly, steadily. He breathed a sigh of relief that felt too genuine, too honest.

      This was the price he must pay, Akechi rationalized. If he was to lead Shido to ruin, he himself would have to bear the conflict of supporting Shido’s rise to power — if only so that he could strip it from him. The guilt — he could call it nothing else — had to be transformed, twisted, into a weapon of determination. 

      Akechi had armed himself with a bow and a singular arrow. He knew he would not miss his target. He couldn’t afford to. There was no margin for error.

      It wouldn’t be much longer now, and with each passing day the fire in his veins grew hotter and the breaths he allowed himself grew more shallow.

      His father wouldn’t see it coming, the collapse of the floor beneath his feet, the shattering of the looking glass that separated Shido from Akechi’s visage. He would never anticipate that his own flesh and blood would welcome the shards of the mirror he’d been too busy staring at to realize he was being played into his skin, that Goro Akechi would find true deliverance when Masayoshi Shido’s blood no longer ran in his veins.

      Exposing Shido for his crimes and freeing himself from the fate of becoming his father was Akechi’s endgame. And he would allow nothing to interfere with that plan.

      The photographic evidence of marks he bore from his father’s hands, the records of threats, of Akechi’s own cries of pain, paper trails linking Shido and his supporters, and more was locked away where no one could find it. The incriminating file against the researcher he’d touched with his own hands was there, but he didn’t dare read beyond learning that she had a daughter. Traces of wire transfers of sums of money, it was all there. 

      Akechi had access Shido believed him incapable of abusing. A younger, more naive version of himself would have believed that Shido trusted him, believed in him. He would never be so ignorant. 

      Shido simply believed in the fear he instilled in Akechi, the implications of what happened to those who crossed him.

      Akechi would know, after all — he served as a conduit of what destruction Shido could wrought, what he was willing to do. In fact, if Akechi had not proved to be so intelligent, so promising, in his youth, Akechi did not doubt that Shido would have offered his pretty boy son up to the highest bidder. Anything to get ahead.

      There were fates worse than his own — and in some ways, Akechi had been lucky, in that his high school dealings with mob bosses were poised with him in a position of power. That hardly made up for how quickly he’d pulled the trigger on a man who dared lay hands on him. 

      It had earned Akechi the respect necessary to demand an audience with Junya Kaneshiro, but made him swallow bile.

He would never confess how terrified he’d been.

      Goro Akechi had remained deadpan until he could dispose of the white shirt stained with red on the sleeve of his left arm, the body dragged away by Kaneshiro’s men. 

He’d left Shibuya with a contract signed that would place them under Shido’s command. 

He went home. 

He washed his skin raw.

      That was the day he nearly overdosed, when Mishima had been called to his aid. Akechi truly couldn’t remember if he confessed his crime or not. Mishima never said anything. It was likely for the best. He didn’t know how he could look Mishima in the eye if the other man knew he had blood on his hands.

Especially since Yuuki Mishima was the only person Akechi would call a friend.

      He sighed and checked the time, noting he would have to leave soon if he were to meet Mishima on time. The other man had suggested convening at a diner in Shibuya. He left his apartment promptly, but not before returning everything to its proper place, erasing any and all evidence that Kurusu had been present at all. Of course, he wouldn’t chastise Mishima for trusting him to Kurusu’s care, but he’d had to make it clear that it couldn’t happen again.

      Akechi arrived at the diner to find Mishima already secured a booth for the two. A quick order of a fruit tea passed through Akechi’s lips. The drink that urban legends claimed improved one’s charisma was placed before him and pleasantries were exchanged.

      Then, Mishima asked Akechi a question.

      “Nothing notable is going on in the forums,” Mishima said, fidgeting in his seat. “And I’m pretty sure I’d remember any unfinished requests. So, what’s this about, Akechi? You’ve never called to actually hang out.”

      “I’m afraid I still haven’t, Mishima,” Akechi responded, briefly considering how Mishima might be offended that this was the case. A quick observation of the other man’s downcast expression confirmed as much. Akechi overlooked it, as he was forced to overlook most things that brought him discomfort. 

      “I know you’re busy,” A moment passed before Mishima responded, but a small smile pulled at his features. It wasn’t the least bit disingenuous and perhaps that’s why Akechi found it so simple to return the expression with a grin of own. 

      Then, he breached the topic he’d contacted Mishima to discuss in the first place. “There’s a matter which involves a mutual friend of ours, Makoto Niijima. She has gotten herself involved in tutoring, no?”

      “Yeah,” Mishima replied, lips pressing into a thin line, as if he were trying to decipher what it was Akechi was getting at with one question, “I asked her to help out Sakamoto and a friend of mine from first year tagged along. He just moved back to Tokyo and wanted to make sure he was prepared for entrance exams.”

      “Niijima mentioned he was here for his first year on probation?” Akechi said. With practiced ease, he rose his hands in mock surrender, and gestured towards Mishima as he spoke, “— I do hope you’ll forgive me for finding it in her best interest and yours to ask his name, so that I might ensure he is no longer a threat.”

      “That was a misunderstanding. I mean, it wasn’t — not really.” Mishima explained, even as he slouched in on himself. His eyes didn’t meet Akechi’s for a moment. Then, the younger man sighed. “You don’t exactly assault someone without reason, or — you shouldn’t. But this guy — he was trying to force himself on a woman and Akira couldn’t let it slide. He heard them struggling and intervened.” Mishima’s postured straightened, then, and he shook his head. It didn’t take a detective to know that this was something Mishima felt strongly about. “The guy, though, he had some pull with the police. And Akira thinks he blackmailed the woman so that she testified on his behalf, saying that Akira just attacked him for no reason.”

      Akechi took a moment to process the information. A boy named Akira, an assault, and a man with influence over the police. Akechi knew it wasn’t impossible. His father had done something similar years back. 

      And he knew that if Akira was a first year student, that no one would have believed him, especially if the woman wasn’t speaking up. Even then, it would have been tough to convict the man. 

      But Akechi didn’t know if this Akira was being honest, or if he spun the story in his favor. An angry child seemed far more likely than a teen preventing a sexual assault. But Mishima believed it, so he wouldn’t try to convince him otherwise. Not yet, but he wouldn’t let this Akira stand if this story didn’t check out.

      “This Akira sounds quite noble,” Akechi noted, “but are you certain that he is telling the truth?”

      “He stepped between me and a couple of gang members once, too!” Mishima said in Akira’s defense, but then ducked his head, smiling sheepishly as he recounted the encounter, “It was a nasty part of town but there was a post on the site I thought I could handle.”

      Mishima handling small injustices alone made something in Akechi’s chest twist, but it wasn’t painful, it was nearly warm, if not sharp around the edges. Could Mishima have handled it alone, had this Akira character not been there? Mishima was tough, in his own way, yet fragile — in the way the curve of his spine was sometimes less than straight, in how his shoulders dropped when he thought someone was disappointed in him — but those moments grew fewer and far between throughout the time he’d been acquainted with the young man. 

      All the same, Akechi didn’t think he would forgive himself if Mishima had been harmed while pursuing a case that someone had posted in hopes that their very own Robin Hood could have conquered.

      “And they call me heroic,” Akechi said softly, so quietly that he wasn’t quite sure Mishima heard him at all, until his companion positively beamed. Akechi looked away for a moment, before returning his attention to the matter at hand, “Mishima, please understand that it would grant me peace of mind to know his full name, so that I might do what research I can to discover the credibility of his claims.”

      “Just talk to him before writing him off, okay?” Mishima asked.  “You’ll understand.” He nodded, the smile from earlier returning, even as his gaze fell the table they sat at, “He’s — uh — like us. And — he’s my best friend.”

      The pain in his chest was apparent now, and Akechi immediately recognized the feeling as envy, something he’d experienced far too often in his life. He smiled all the same, for it wasn’t as if he’d done anything to earn such a title. It wasn’t as if he allowed Mishima to get closer than strictly necessary and it certainly wasn’t as if he would wish for Mishima’s closest friend to be a man doomed to ruin.

      “Mishima, I would like to believe you know me well enough to trust me when I say that I do my research before casting judgement,” Akechi explained, “As you know, speaking to the suspect is a pivotal part of any investigation.”

      Mishima nearly laughed at Akechi’s explanation, “Okay, _Detective_ , his name is Akira Kurusu and he’s from Inaba.”

      Akechi nearly choked on the response of thanking his witness for his cooperation when he recognized the last name of Mishima’s friend. Everything clicked into place. “— Pardon?”

      Mishima didn’t seem to notice his surprise. “Knowing his hometown will help you find the case record, right?”

      “No,” Akechi said, before shaking his head, “I mean, yes, but his name is Akira Kurusu? The same Kurusu you disclosed my address to?”

      “Wait, you spoke?” Panic flashed through the younger man’s eyes, “You remember?” Suddenly, Mishima looked away, before returning his attention to Akechi, appearing apologetic, “ — He was supposed to leave before you woke up.”

      “They are one in the same...” Akechi said.

      Mishima sighed. “Did he at least leave a good impression?”

      “I — ,” Akechi said, still a bit struck at the realization, feeling the cold edge lining his voice before he’d even really said anything, “I — will contact Niijima about when she is set to tutor Sakamoto again and learn if Kurusu is to join. He and I will speak properly, then.”

      “Akechi,” Mishima said, the edge of a frown pulling at his features,  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

      “Mishima,” Akechi said, waiting for his companion to meet his gaze, doing his best to say with words what his tone would not. “I would never do anything to damage a relationship that you value. I cannot ensure I will like Kurusu, but I will not forbid him from seeing you or threaten him.”

      “You — uh  — you do have that kind of influence.” Mishima said.

      “I merely believe it would be a kindness to allow him to know that.”

      “Akechi,” It seemed Akechi’s efforts to reassure Mishima were falling short, “you’re not upset with me, are you?”

      A small laugh escaped Akechi, one he hoped didn’t sound as resigned as he felt, “No, of course not. It’s not like I can expect you to drop everything at my beck and call. You made a judgement call — one that, if I am able to understand correctly, was in my best interest.” He forced the image of Kurusu explaining how he’d prevented Akechi being coerced into leaving the bar with some stranger from his his mind. “I — I just need to be sure that he will not reveal any of this information to the public. Certainly, you understand.”

      Silence hung in the air for a moment too long and Akechi did his best not to allow the tension coiling throughout his form show in his posture as he awaited a response.

      “He’ll understand, Akechi. He — knows what it’s like, to have the things you’ve done be judged, regardless of motivation.” Mishima reassured, “Just — please, promise me you’ll try to be careful.”

      “With Kurusu?” Akechi asked.

      “No,” Mishima said, his voice strong even as his eyes glistened. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Akechi. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’ll get a call saying —.” He shook his head, and forced a grin. “Just, please.”

      Akechi sighed, for as close of a confidant as Mishima seemed, there were some things he would never understand, some things Akechi couldn’t allow him to know. Part of Akechi knew it was selfish, to keep Mishima in his life despite that, but for some reason, he just couldn’t let go of the one person who seemed to believe in all the best of him, who didn’t ask anything of him but that he continue breathing.

      And for Mishima’s sake, Akechi hoped he was making a promise he could keep.

      “You have my word, Yuuki Mishima.”


	8. he is but glass — doomed to shatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His back met the slab of wood behind him with a thump as he collapsed against the door, legs finding no purchase against the floor beneath his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sooo short and and late and it was really difficult to write... Hopefully the exposition isn't too trying for you guys, but when I said slow burn in the tags, I meant really slow. The plot is set to thicken substantially in the next few chapters, but no fear, for that also means Goro and Akira are sure to cross paths in the near future! Here's to a night of me writing the next chapter even as I post this one.
> 
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me what you think in the comments or on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha). As lame as it sounds, feedback is really motivating!

      To have the luxury of going through the motions after this encounter would have been a mercy, one that Goro Akechi was certainly not allowed, not when Masayoshi Shido demanded an audience with his only son the following day. Once Akechi was released from classes and his internship under Sae Niijima’s guiding hands, he was to report to Shido’s office to be briefed.

       His jaw ached from the force behind the pleasant smile pulling at his features as he approached his father. All of his experience at remaining impassive was put into practice when a smirk pulled at his father’s lips as they exchanged pleasantries. The question of how Akechi’s weekend was posed innocently enough, yet it conjured a flash of the image of that Akira Kurusu character before his eyes, prompting a shiver of fear to run the length of Akechi’s spine.

       Akechi ignored the instinct to falter, though, far too trained for such trivial, visceral reactions. Shido’s perception of Akechi had to remain unsullied. Remaining poised, remaining unreadable, was imperative while in Shido’s company.

       “Fine,” was all Akechi said in response, asking of his father’s in turn.

       All the while, Akechi reprimanded himself. The stilted exchange of such pleasantries with Shido wasn’t uncommon. He shouldn’t be shaken. It always came before Shido presented his demands or accosted Akechi for mistakes the younger hadn’t even realized he’d made. 

       This was certainly not the time for allowing thoughts of phantom figures like Akira Kurusu to haunt him.

       Yet, what a dreadfully horrid turn of events it had been, to discover that Akira Kurusu was the third year delinquent student, the man at the bar who challenged him, the lost bystander from the television studio, and someone who knew a heinous secret of his yet didn’t recognize Akechi’s face as one of the acclaimed.

       Kurusu was also a valued person in the eyes of Mishima.

       That particular note complicated things, but these musings could not be allowed to linger, not when his father presented him with a schedule he was expected to amend his own to accommodate in the following weeks.

       Akechi could feel the bags beneath his eyes, far too similar to his father’s for his liking, darken at the sight. That was not to mention how Akechi could discern the subtle increase in his own pulse, how he could feel the tightening of his veins as his blood pressure rose.

       Shido had plans and the schedule was just the beginning of it.

       For then, the elder began discussing the situation in Shibuya, how public opinion was being swayed by accounts posted of criminal activity in the area — how Akechi’s fan site was responsible for the attention being brought to said activity, how Junya Kaneshiro, Shido’s associate was being named specifically.

       “That admin needs to be put in his place,” Shido demanded.

       Part of Goro Akechi was terrified at what Shido might do if he chose to handle Yuuki Mishima himself, another part of Akechi had never been more prepared for this moment.

       He lacquered his tongue in molten silver and allowed the softest of laughs to part his lips.

       “If I may, Shido-san,” Akechi said, smile turning sharp — as he composed a solution that was sure to be dismissed, in fact, planned to be dismissed. “There is a simple solution to this problem.” Akechi noted the warning in his father’s eyes. Akechi knew his statement was bold. It was sure to be questioned. Yet, he had learned that when faced with his father, conviction was key. 

       Masayoshi Shido was many things. He was callous and manipulative, but he was also meticulous and unwavering. Shido expected nothing less from those who accompanied him.

       Akechi was no exception.

       “Please,” Shido said, mimicking Akechi’s laugh, the expression lacking all mirth. “Enlighten me.” 

       “Neither you nor I will have to lift a finger,” Akechi assured him, proceeding to explain how a carefully crafted phrase would be more than enough to ‘convince’ the admin of his fan site to filter out certain posts.

       Shido seemed unimpressed.

       Akechi was unsurprised.

       “The public has already decided what must be done,” Shido proclaimed, dismissing Akechi’s suggested course of action.

       This, of course, had been his plan — now, Akechi only had to ensure that the threat to Mishima was eliminated. He had known this day would come, the day he would have to be as ruthless as his father.

       How many times had he rehearsed this conversation before?

       Too many to count.

       It didn’t make the fear of Mishima’s fate any less palpable.

       “Ah — how unsightly,” Akechi said, maintaining his pleasant guise, even as the acrid taste of bile rose to the back of throat. “Though, I suppose it would do well for me to show mourning to the public,” He felt the rise and fall of his shoulders, a timely shrug. The nonchalant sigh passed through his lips right on cue. “Though my fans will expect vengeance, or rather, justice to be served to those who would so blatantly attack me in such a fashion.” Akechi reminded himself that conviction was not only way to win over his father. Ruthlessness was just as efficient. “Would it not be simpler to eliminate the source of discourse in the first place?”

       “You suggest severing our ties to the underground?” Shido asked, bringing a hand to his chin.

       Akechi grinned, the expression nearly maniacal.

       “Not so much severing, but reestablishing, stronger than before,” Akechi explained, mirroring his father’s gesture,“— With the lingering threat of what happens when one crosses you, when your associates step out of bounds. With the election so close, a timely reminder of who is in control could not possibly hurt.”

       Shido smiled.

       Akechi knew sacrifices had to be made for his vision of Shido’s downfall to become a reality and he knew that very many of those sacrifices would be at his own expense, be it innocence, morality, or humanity. He would slowly but surely become the monster he was born to be — but with his last breath, what little heart that remained in his chest — he would take Shido down with him.

       Having concocted the perfect way to preserve Mishima’s status, Akechi was willing to endanger Makota Niijima in his stead. He would prey upon a poorly concealed competitive streak she harbored along with her devotion to her former position of Student Council President at Shujin academy. The leads would be placed before her. 

       First, he would tell her of hints of criminal activity in Shibuya. Then, he would ‘discover’ the involvement of students from Shujin, and ‘encourage’ her to take on the case — saying that he wished to himself but was over-encumbered by his internship and knew she could handle it on her own.

       “We will use Makota Niijima to force my hand. — I suspect it will take very little for them to threaten her in some pathetic imitation of leverage.” Akechi concluded, having expressed his plan of action to Shido.

       “And we will use that to my advantage.”

       “A statement against gang violence with your son convicting the most heinous of crime bosses in Shibuya…” Akechi said, nodding his head in agreement. “Public opinion is sure to rise. And whoever replaces the severed head of Kaneshiro will be far more likely to quiet themselves — police themselves. It will be understood that they should practice more inconspicuous behaviors.”

       “See it done,” Shido commanded.

       “It will be my pleasure, Shido-san,” Akechi responded, bowing slightly to his father as he made an effort to dismiss himself from the man’s office.

       “And Akechi,” Shido said, prompting Akechi to turn around to face his father once more.

       “Sir?”

       “Understand that there will be consequences if you are to fail.”

       “Understood,” Akechi acknowledged, even as he swallowed hard.

       Akechi didn’t allowed himself to relax, to breathe, until he reached his apartment. He closed the door behind him and locked it with shaking hands. His back met the slab of wood behind him with a thump as he collapsed against the door, legs finding no purchase against the floor beneath his feet. The briefcase that he so diligently carried at his side clattered loudly as it fell from his grasp. 

       He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

       This path he had chosen, this life he lived — it was arduous. Yet, Akechi held the conviction his father did to his goals and would do what must be done to accomplish them, no matter the consequences. And if he chose to save some and sacrifice others along the way, so it must be.

       He tried to convince himself Mishima was a more important tool to have than Niijima, but even Akechi couldn’t fool himself. Mishima was important to him and that was dangerous and even more dangerous was the fact that that Akira Kurusu was important to Mishima.

       If anything, Akechi had expected never to cross paths with the dark haired man again, except of course to threaten him with whatever he could find to hold over the man’s head. Yes, Akechi had planned to smile pleasantly as he silenced Kurusu about what he’d witnessed in Crossroads and at his apartment.

       But now, Akechi be forced to see Kurusu again — to do his research, to learn more about the man who Mishima valued so.

       That’s not to mention how he would need to compile a compelling case against Kaneshiro for Niijima to pursue and prepare himself for the possible repercussions of placing Niijima in such a compromising situation.

       Right now, though, Akechi supposed he should count his blessings, for escaping Shido relatively unscathed was a miracle, a mercy, a sign that maybe there was some god out there that had found it amusing enough to answer his pleas.


	9. so it goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goro Akechi found himself going through the motions after his encounter with his father, though paranoia forced him to tread lightly. Within the confines of Leblanc, Akechi encounters Niijima and Sakamoto and finds himself aced with Akira Kurusu once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6k for very late, my dudes. The holidays are rough and I was genuinely working on this chapter whenever I could find the time to write something. It was quite trying to really hone in on four distinct voices for each character but here's hoping that my attempt was just a bit successful. [ Note: It was really cool to try to write Ryuji. Let me know how you think I did. ]
> 
> As always, you can reach me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) and or the comments!

       Goro Akechi found himself going through the motions after his encounter with his father. Paranoia forced him to tread lightly, to blatantly ignore the thrall of the nights in Shinjuku that would beckon him to forget, if only just for a moment whose son his was, what he was forced to do — all in the service of justice.

       The news of criminal activity in Shibuya became relevant to the masses. Akechi heard Kaneshiro’s name being whispered between men and women of all ages. He pitied them, in how little they knew of Kaneshiro’s true influence, in how they were so naive as to believe no corruption ran in the veins of the Masayoshi Shido who claimed to be their savior.

       Shido claimed he would steer Japan towards a brighter future. He would reform society, the masses said, he would keep the likes of Kaneshiro off the streets.

       _What fools_.

       There did exist those who doubted, though. They were far more interesting to Akechi in how they spoke softly, quietly, conspiratorially, of if the police were really interested in incarcerating Kaneshiro, that they would have contracted Goro Akechi to the case by now. 

       They, however few, believed if Masayoshi Shido truly was a man of the people, he’d ask his son to quell the public’s fear.

       Akechi laughed under his breath at the thought, a mirthless grin pulling at his lips. If only they knew that _he_ was the one responsible for giving Kaneshiro the influence he had, for creating the bond between their believed deliverer and the criminal in question.

       If only they knew that Akechi and Shido were the reasons that Kaneshiro had yet to be apprehended.

       The tide, though, was certain to turn — revealing Akechi and Shido to be heroic, a disguise befitting of their status of villains.

       And that would simply be another addition to many masks Akechi imbedded into his flesh.

       Arranging an encounter with Niijima was simple, boring, even. Akechi only needed to ask when she was to tutor Sakamoto again. 

       And rehearsing the scene was second nature, like preparing for an interview — a reminder to stay on topic, a few anecdotes if conversation steered otherwise, a manufactured grin and a practiced laugh. First, he would express his concerns and Sakamoto, the student who had been so adamant in his claims of Kamoshido’s abuse, would likely offer insight. Certainly, the blond would have kept his eyes and ears open after Kamoshido’s arrest, certain that the corruption didn’t end there. 

       Yes, Sakamoto would provide insight into the status of Shujin students — if they were being driven into situations unfitting for a high schooler. 

       He was certain Sakamoto would prove useful once more.

       And if Akechi was lucky, Akira Kurusu would join them.

       Such a series of events would eliminate more than one source of his anxiety.

       One less thing to worry about might allow him some sleep at night.

      Akechi arrived at the small cafe in Yongen-Jaya before Sakamoto and Niijima. He was greeted by the proprietor and offered the house blend, which he accepted. The detective sat at the booth nearest the exit, certain that the small size of shop would allow Niijima and Sakamoto no opportunity of missing his presence.

       Sakamoto was the first of the two to arrive. He nodded at Akechi, in recognition of his presence before approaching the owner of the cafe. The two seemed to be familiar enough with one another, even as Akechi noted the resignation in the sigh that passed between the proprietor’s lips as he handed Sakamoto a can of soda instead of a coffee.

       The owner seemed to catch sight of Akechi’s observation of the scene and simply shrugged, returning his attention to the crossword he’d been working on when Sakamoto first arrived.

       “Yo,” Sakamoto said, dropping into the booth across from from Akechi, “Makoto said you offered to help —.” He popped the can of soda open with little reverence, and took a sip. “Not that I ain’t grateful, but what the hell — man?” His voice cracked ever so slightly, but Sakamoto steeled his tone, meeting Akechi’s gaze with a sort of determination that felt all to reminiscent of their first encounter, when Sakamoto was explaining just exactly what he thought Akechi should do with Kamoshida. “I feel like I’ve only seen your face on TV since we put Kamoshida behind bars.”

       “I’ve been terribly busy —,” Akechi began, wrapping his gloved hands around the ceramic mug placed before his person. He smiled that pleasant smile he practiced so often, “as I’m sure you’ve heard.” He sighed then, ignoring the indignant glare in Sakamoto’s stare. “And I must admit,” Akechi said, a soft laugh parting his lips, “you’ve never seemed very fond of me.”

       Sakamoto grinned at Akechi’s response, relaxing against the back of side of the booth in which he sat. He drank again from the can of soda before responding.

       “You’re not wrong,” Sakamoto confirmed, the lilt in his tone conveying a sort of amusement Akechi nearly envied, in how easily the other man conjured it from nothing. “You came across like a real dick,” The other man continued, “Didn’t really expect much out of a pretty boy detective.”

       It didn’t take much for Akechi to recall his first interaction with Sakamoto, whom he’d met through Niijima and by proxy, Mishima. The blond teen had a real bitter streak when it came to anyone in a position of power, especially if he thought they were abusing said power. That said, being a son of the politician did little to establish Akechi’s credibility in the eyes of Sakamoto.

       When Mishima eventually convinced Sakamoto to explain to Akechi the broken leg he’d received from Kamoshida’s claim of self-defense, it wasn’t hard for Akechi to understand the kind of resentment such injustice could foster in a child.

       After all, he’d received his own fair share of injustice at the hands of Shido. No broken bones, of course, but the beatings didn’t hurt any less because of it.

       That being said, Akechi’s own bitterness was forced to the forefront of his consciousness when faced with Sakamoto then, so his confession of his own impression of Sakamoto wasn’t something the two didn’t already know.

       “As I did not expect much from such a vulgar, angry teen,” Akechi said, the smile on his lips turning just a bit sharp, if only to convey a sort of mischief Sakamoto would surely respond positively to.

       That of course, was not to say that Akechi did not harbor some respect for Sakamoto, which the other seemed to share. After all, the two, along with Mishima and Niijima had faced a monster and won.

       “See,” Sakamoto said. The grin pulling at Sakamoto’s features betrayed any mock irritation he might have held toward Akechi, “that’s what I’m talking about.”

       “I strive to meet your expectations, of course,” Akechi replied, taking a sip from the mug before him before pushing it aside.

       “Yeah, yeah.” Sakamoto said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. The man pulled a notebook and a textbook from his schoolbag then, haphazardly dropping them on the table. “Wanna help me with math before Niijima gets here to drill me about history?”

       “I don’t mind at all.”

       Tutoring Sakamoto was a feat both tiresome and frustrating. Part of Akechi respected Niijima all the more taking on such a task. Akechi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was on his second cup of coffee and Sakamoto was on his third can of soda. The caffeine in their systems likely did very little to take the edge off of what stress Sakamoto’s continual misunderstanding of Akechi’s instructions caused.

       Akechi was loath to admit it, but perhaps he and Sakamoto shared impatience along with the propensity to engage in a mean streak.

       “I believe a break might be in order,” Akechi suggested, a tinge of irritation lacing his tone as he leaned back from where he was hunched over the table, resting the pencil in his hand against the table.

       “You and I both —.” Sakamoto said, equally biting, as he practically collapsed against the back of the booth. The blond rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palm. They hadn’t been working too terribly long when Sakamoto told Akechi that Niijima texted him to say she’d be running late. She was delivering dinner to Sae Niijima, who said she’d be at the office all night. 

       If Akechi knew anything about the youngest Niijima, Makoto would linger, for however long her older sister would allow herself to relax before working once more.

       Now, it was just a matter of time. And Akechi did not intend to leave until he accomplished his goal.

       Until then, he began step one of his plan. Surely, probing Sakamoto for information wouldn’t be difficult. If anything, Sakamoto would probably welcome the distraction.

       “So — how does Shujin fare since my timely intervention?” Akechi asked.

       “You’re actually interested?” Sakamoto asked, looking up from the phone he pulled out only moments beforehand.

       “Of course —,” Akechi confirmed, a small smile pulling at his features.

       Sakamoto seemed to contemplate what Akechi said. He shrugged and stuffed his phone into his blazer’s pocket.

       “Well, the track team’s up and running —,” The blond said, a small smile pulling at his features. He shook his head, then continued, “The volleyball team ain’t champs but they’re also not covered in bruises so I’m counting that as a win. And sure, there’s the normal shady shit, but nothing I haven’t heard before.”

       “This shady activity wouldn’t have anything to do with the crime rate in Shibuya, would it?” Akechi responded, attention fully consumed by the information Sakamoto was providing him with.

       “You mean Kaneshiro, right?” Sakamoto asked, “— Figures you would have heard about it.” He scoffed, “Kids are being blackmailed and girls — maybe even guys — are turning tricks to pay off debts they don’t even know how they got.”

       “This is — much worse than I was lead to believe,” Akechi said, his tone nearly questioning, in an effort to bait Sakamoto into telling him more.

       “Yeah, Yuuki and Akira took down a couple thugs a while back, but cut off one head, it’s like two more take its place.”

“And you didn’t think to contact me?” Akechi asked then, feigning concern, “— Certainly this hasn’t all happened at once.”

       “You already forget that I’ve seen you on TV and magazines more than I have in person?” Sakamoto said, a forcing a laugh. “With the election coming up, and your internship — I figured you’d have your hands full.” Sakamoto raised his hands in mock surrender then, “Sides, it’s all over that fan site of yours —. Can you blame me for guessing if you thought it was a problem, you’d step in?” Sakamoto paused, meeting Akechi’s gaze, “You know, like you did with Kamoshida?”

       “I have been preoccupied as of late —,” Akechi fought the urge to wretch at the accusation in Sakamoto’s tone, even as half-truths spilled from his lips from scripts memorized for moments like this one. “And I truly do not have the time I need to devote to a case of such a sensitive nature.”

       “So, you’re not going to do anything —?” Sakamoto said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “Huh, fame’s really gotten to you.”

       “I will intervene,” Akechi proclaimed, immediately defending himself even as he was provided for the perfect moment to introduce the very idea he’d secured this meeting for. “Niijima, as you know, is also pursuing a career in law enforcement.” He felt the way his eyes narrowed in response, how the grip he secured on the ceramic mug before his person tightened. Determination, feigned or real — it was hard to tell the difference anymore — lined his tone, “— I have the utmost confidence that if you and I were to suggest that she take on the case, she would.” He nodded at Sakamoto, even as he eased the grip on the mug in his hands, “I would offer her whatever assistance I could, whenever I could. I believe that as your former Student Council President, she certainly possesses the qualities needed to lead the investigation.”

       Akechi swallowed hard, wondering if he even believed what he was saying about Niijima. To him, she served as a diversion, a sacrifice if necessary — a shield between Mishima and his father’s wrath. Certainly, though, her coursework would provide her with apt tools to accomplish apprehending Kaneshiro, especially when Akechi himself would be forced to step in.

       “You — you really think she’s capable?” Sakamoto asked.

       _No, no I don’t._

       And suddenly, at Sakamoto’s question, Akechi knew exactly how he felt about Niijima’s odds of success. Nonetheless, the lie that falls from his lips, even when lives could truly be at stake, is steeped in confidence.

       “Yes, I do.”

       “Okay, I’m game.” Sakamoto said then, quickly pulling his phone back out of his blazer and turning to a clean page in his notebook, “Hell, I’ll scroll through your fan site to grab names and jot down as many as I can remember — I’m sure you can find them with their year and names, right?” He waited for Akechi to nod in confirmation, which he did. “— Then, you might want to ask Yuuki and Akira about what they saw in Shibuya. My guess is that kid they were trying to help out is still on the hook.”

       Akechi was too practiced to allow his hands to shake, too practiced to be phased by the taste of bile in the back of his throat. 

      Internally, he repeated a mantra to himself, a reminder of why he must sacrifice.

_For Mishima, For Mom. For Japan._ And quietly, so quietly that it hardly registered to him at all, a small voice in the back of his head whispered, _For Me._

       After a while, Niijima made her entrance and to say that Akechi and Sakamoto did anything but ambush her with the ever evolving case of Kaneshiro would be a deception even Akechi himself was not well versed enough in to convince anyone to believe. 

       If Akechi hadn’t have been so focused on delivering an impassioned speech about how he would be honored if she were to accept the case on his behalf, he might have paid more attention to the fact that Kurusu had followed Niijima into the establishment. He might have acknowledged how Kurusu didn’t join them, but instead went behind the counter to don a green apron. Akechi might have even truly considered the time, and how the proprietor of the shop exited the shop shortly after.

       To say he didn’t notice these things would be dishonest, but the implications of such a series of events might have convinced him to quickly vacate the premises if he hadn’t a mission to complete. 

       Having Kurusu around when wearing this particular mask, the one of the pleasant detective prince, made him want to devote the entirety of his mental capacity to keeping his guard up, watching his words, giving the other man nothing more on him than strictly necessary. He hadn’t anticipated such a reaction in himself, but nonetheless forced himself to continue the ruse of his presence here in the first place.

       First, get Niijima to accept the case. 

       Second, maintain the nerve necessary to confront Kurusu.

       “Akechi, this is too generous of you,” Niijima said, bowing her head from where she beside Sakamoto.

       “I hardly believed that presenting you with a case that I have neither the time nor means to pursue is something akin to generosity,” Akechi responded, dismissing her gratitude with a quick wave of his hand, “Surely you’ve heard what the people are saying.” He sighed heavily, “And the cops, what use are they? I believe it is up to detectives, like ourselves — like you,” Akechi added, gesturing towards Niijima, “to put an end to this. Who will protect the students of Shujin if not their Student Council President?”

       To compliment and imply apathy was the swiftest way to manipulate someone into accepting a task one has presented before them. It was something Akechi had learned young and he was certain Niijima would succumb to it.

       “Hell yeah!” Sakamoto encouraged, “And think of what taking down Kaneshiro will look like. Shujin will definitely be marked off limits and, Makoto, you’ll be on Akechi’s level. They’ll be fighting for getting you two on the force!”

       “It’s beneficial in many ways,” Akechi added, “A criminal off the streets and a line on a resumé.”

       “I’ll do it,” Niijima said, then. “For Shujin.”

       Akechi smiled at her acceptance.

       “Better watch your back, Akechi,” Sakamoto warned, elbowing Niijima even as he ripped the pages out of his notebook that he and Akechi had gathered pertinent information on. “She’s got her eyes on the prize.”

       “A rival of sorts would make things more interesting.”

       Niijima took over the majority of Sakamoto’s tutoring from there, though it seemed she was having much more success than Akechi had. The detective prince chimed in here and there, though, if only to justify his lingering.

       When Niijima left, Akechi assured her he would forward any materials to assist her in her investigation of Kaneshiro if he were to stumble upon them. Sakamoto followed shortly after, but not before raising a brow at the fact that Akechi was insisting on one last cup of coffee before leaving Leblanc.

       Part of Akechi wondered if Sakamoto could tell the excuse was a lie, especially since the blond seemed to look past him before grabbing his bag and vacating the premises.

       The smile Kurusu offered Akechi when he reached the counter seemed genuine enough. Akechi was opening his mouth to speak when Kurusu interrupted him, that easy smile still pulling at his features.

       “Want a fresh cup before you drill me?” He asked, making to prepare the coffee before Akechi had a chance to reject the offer.

       Akechi’s jaw snapped shut and his head tilted ever so slightly at the sight. He chose to seat himself at the counter, idly watching Kurusu work. He seemed quite adept at this craft — part of the detective wondered if he moved just as effortlessly behind the bar in crossroads, another part wondered if he had noticed — some things from that night were clearer than others.

       Before he knew it, a mug was placed before him and Kurusu watched him, expectation burning in his gaze as his eyes shifted between Akechi and the cup, a silent instruction to drink it.

       Akechi lifted the cup to his lips and ignored the scalding heat as he drank. There was something sweet in the mixture, something different from the house blend. He felt his eyes widen ever so slightly in response, even as he returned the cup to its place on the counter before him.

       It seemed Kurusu hadn’t missed his response, the smile on his face having grown twice its original size. Akechi resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the sight. Even as his hands held tight the grasp he had on the mug, he refused to give Kurusu the satisfaction of complimenting him. No, instead, he would compliment the establishment, implying that Kurusu obviously learned this skill from the proprietor.

       “I must admit, this establishment has fine coffee.” Akechi said.

       “Remember to tip your barista.” Kurusu responded, grin not subsiding in the slightest.

       “Is that how you generally solicit tips from your customers?” Akechi asked, an unamused sigh escaping him.

       “Nope,” Kurusu responded, a soft laugh parting his lips, “but I don't think flirting would get me really far with you.” The barista seized a rag and a mug and began polishing it before returning his attention to Akechi, “Wouldn’t you be able to see right through me, Detective?”

       “A wise move on your part, Kurusu,” Akechi responded, “Perhaps you should implement this sense of self preservation in other aspects of your life.”

       Kurusu laughed. Akechi arched a brow in question but the barista shook his head in response. Whatever amusement the other man found in his words would remain a mystery, for now at least.

       Akechi made to speak again, to bring up their previous interaction when Kurusu, once more, spoke up a mere moment before he did.

       “So, what’s in it for you?” Kurusu asked. Despite the accusatory nature of the inquiry, though, Akechi only gauged curiosity in the barista’s tone, not judgement. “Putting Niijima on the Kaneshiro case, I mean — are you trying to boost her career?”

       Simply because it didn't seem as if Kurusu was judging him didn’t mean he was going to give the other man a straight answer. Allowing Kurusu any more leverage than he already had wasn’t an option.

       “Eavesdropping,” Akechi said, rolling his eyes. “And here I thought this job was your attempt at establishing credibility? Surely, such childish behavior would convince one otherwise.”

       “What can I say?” Kurusu shrugged. “Ryuji isn’t necessarily known for his subtlety.”

       Kurusu wasn’t wrong. There were quite a few times Akechi wished the other man would lower his voice, but refrained from asking him to do so in fear that Sakamoto would take offense.

       “All the same, I fail to see how this is any of your concern, Kurusu.”

       “Hmm,” Kurusu said, discarding the cloth and putting down the mug, “I guess you just didn’t seem like the type to discard something, especially with people who are helpless.”

       “And what would you know of me?” Akechi asked, grip tightening around the cup in his hands. He was certain his knuckles were white beneath the fabric of his gloves. Despite this, he smiled that pleasant smile — as if he truly believed that this stranger couldn’t see right through him, that the mask fooled Kurusu despite the other man having born witness to the ugliest parts of Akechi that rested beneath it.

       Akechi knew, objectively, that Kurusu couldn’t know about Shido, about the threat to Mishima, about how he did go out of his way to help others and how he had to turn a blind eye when his father was involved. Kurusu couldn’t know that it ate at him. Kurusu didn’t know him. If anything, he could have simply read an article or two about Akechi to get this impression, that Akechi wanted to help the helpless.

       “Mishima told me about you,” Kurusu said, instead, and Akechi released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, “— And you said it yourself. You’re a detective, of sorts. A prodigy, even. You saved him.”

       Akechi’s postured stiffened. Of course Mishima spoke of him, the second best friend to Kurusu’s first. Envy showed itself once more, making Akechi’s next words have far more bite than he originally intended.

       “Your point, Kurusu?”

       Kurusu seemed to startle a little at the venom in Akechi’s tone, but quickly cooled his features, the corners of his mouth turning up in a dangerous grin. Akechi recognized that look. He had worn it countless times before, in having found a weakness in an enemy’s defenses — preparing to strike at it.

       What surprised him, though his how quickly the expression dissolved, and how gently Kurusu pressed at the sore spot he found in Akechi’s defenses, rather than striking it dead on.

       “Even if you’re working yourself to death, you just didn’t strike me as the guy to let this Kaneshiro thing slip between your fingers.”

       Somehow, Kurusu not going in for the kill made Akechi all the more defensive.

       “Have you done your research or are these all _hunches_?” Akechi huffed.

       Kurusu was quiet for a moment, but then met Akechi’s gaze. Akechi refused to stare anywhere but at the storms that hid Kurusu’s intentions, certain there was a threat to stand down in his own eyes.

       Kurusu didn’t heed the warning, but he still didn’t attack. 

       No, Kurusu seemed concerned.

       “I know how it is, being in a bad place.” Kurusu said, the expression loaded — an allusion no doubt to Akechi’s state when the barista had escorted him from Crossroads back to his apartment. 

       Akechi scoffed.

       The smirk pulling at his lips turned sharp, even as his cadence still held pleasantness between his teeth.

       “Yes, your delinquency,” Akechi said, referencing Kurusu’s _bad place_ with no reverence, “— I must admit that it is quite difficult to get a hold of your record. I found it quite interesting to learn that much of the information has been redacted.”

       Kurusu shook his head, eyes dropping to the counter for a moment, a fond smile pulling at his features.

       “Mishima’s fair. I’ll give him that.”

       Akechi nearly lost his composure, releasing the cup from his grasp, his fist colliding with the counter in a thud, drawing Kurusu’s attention back to him. He wouldn’t let Kurusu’s thoughts linger on Mishima, not right now.

       “True,” Akechi said, “So, would you care to regale me with the tale of your arrest?”

       The line of Kurusu’s mouth hardened, and his eyes glinted in the spare lighting of Leblanc. He laughed, the sound mirthless.

       “Sure, if you want to tell me what had you snorting coke in the bathroom of Crossroads?”

       “Fair enough.”

       The two were at an impasse, it seemed, neither willing to budge. Akechi cursed himself, having spoken so lightly of how ‘interesting’ it would be to have a rival in reference to Niijima. But Kurusu, it seemed, wanted to take that title for himself.

       Part of Akechi couldn’t help but feel as if Kurusu’s next words were taunting, as if Kurusu believed Akechi needed an advantage in whatever game they were playing. Another part of him suggested that maybe the other man was extending an olive branch of sorts, trying to get him to open up by expressing some vulnerability of his own.

       “I’ll give you this, though,” Kurusu said, “That guy — I don’t care who is, what he did to force that woman to testify against me, I would do it again. I don’t regret stepping in.”

       “How noble,” Akechi commented, the statement short, clipped.

       Kurusu made a strange sound at that, somewhere between a scoff and a huff of laughter escaping him at once. Disbelief seemed to line his tone.

       “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

       “Isn’t it?” Akechi rebutted. “Your life has been forever altered by an attempt to do right. What justice is there in that?”

       “She wasn’t hurt,” Kurusu explained, “That’s all the justice I need.”

       “And you care not for your own self?” Akechi asked.

       Kurusu hesitated.

       “I couldn’t live with myself I had just walked away,” Kurusu answered.

       That was all Akechi needed, and he would strike true in his attack. There would be no probing, no gentleness. He would not allow Kurusu the mercy the other man offered him. Certainly, he could shatter this man like he’d done the others who got in his way. 

       A hero complex, when forced to confront the brutal reality of this world couldn’t have peace — the endless justifications of action, the excuses for the fragility of humanity. What everyone else walked away from, ignored, Kurusu hadn’t — the hesitation told Akechi that he, in retrospect, thought he might should have.

       “Hmm,” Akechi hummed in acknowledgement, wondering if the smirk he’d witnessed on Kurusu’s face only moments before stretched across his own features, “It seems you are strangely content for someone who has been wronged.”

       Kurusu’s response surprised him. It truly was unlike anything he’d ever been met with before.

       “It helps to know there are people like you out there,” Kurusu said, a bit sheepish as he brought a hand to scratch at the back of his head, gaze finding the counter rather than Akechi’s features. “Mishima has nothing but great things to say about you —,” He paused, hands dropping back to his sides and met Akechi’s gaze with his own, something burning in it that Akechi couldn’t quite name, “and I think — I think he knows you suffer.” Akechi opened his mouth to speak, raised a hand as if the action would dismiss Kurusu but was ignored, “I mean, if he’s your emergency contact, not family, then I think its fair to say he cares a lot about you, and if you’re good in his book, you’re good in mine.”

       Kurusu looked away from Akechi then, even turned his back on the detective, seemingly occupied with cleaning some contraption used to make coffee. Akechi glanced at his watch, and noted the time. It was getting late and he honestly had no ideas what the hours of this little cafe were. He wondered if he was keeping Kurusu — if maybe Mishima was right, that Kurusu could be trusted, that he could understand.

       Part of Akechi considered running from this particular problem. 

       But Akechi’s life was never so simple. Loose ends always needed typing.

       “If I am to be perfectly honest…” Akechi began, only to be met with a laugh coming from the other man, his shoulders rising and falling as the only indicator of the the action. “ — What?”

       Kurusu turned around then, discarding another cloth he seemed to have found while his back was turned to Akechi. His demeanor changed dramatically in that moment and Akechi did see the danger in his eyes, but there was no grin painting Kurusu’s features. Kurusu was calm and only smiled that easy smile he’d worn when Akechi first approached him when he responded.

       “I don’t think you’ve done that a day in your life,” Kurusu said.

       His aim was true and the words struck at Akechi like bullets — the constant questioning of his own motives, the person he was juxtaposed with what he became, what he had to become, the stories of monsters and knights, princes and princesses, how Cinderella’s step sisters were just as evil as their mother. 

       The truth was, that Akechi couldn’t be honest, not really — with so many carefully placed pieces on the chessboard of his life, with vengeance within his grasp. He had come too far to drop all the walls he’s erected between himself and the outside world.

       He could only watch the world outside, like Rapunzel in her tower.

       Honesty died with his mother.

       And Kurusu would pay for this, for sending a serpent into his prison, whispering the truth of this life he made — a truth he desperately and constantly convinced himself was for the greater good — right into his ear.

       “I think you assume too much, Kurusu,” Akechi said then, politely even as he critiqued Kurusu’s behavior once more, “If you would not meddle in affairs of which you have no knowledge, then perhaps you would have no record —.”

       “It hurts, doesn’t it?” Kurusu asked then, smiling.

       “I have no interest in hearing another word, Akira Kurusu.” Akechi said, pushing the chair in which he sat backwards as he stood in one fluid motion. “Just know, that if you hurt Mishima, I will end you without a second thought.” Briefcase in one hand, he slammed the other down on the counter as he threatened the man before him. “And yes, Kurusu, I do have that kind of influence. If you don’t consider your life ruined now, then you would do best to avoid crossing me.”

       Akechi had already turned to leave when he heard Kurusu speak softly, almost in a whisper.

       “Akechi, my life is ruined,” He confessed.

       Akechi took pause, stilling for a moment. He turned his head slightly, profile visible to his companion. The detective couldn’t explain what compelled him to stay, aside from the mere knowledge that what Kurusu was saying now could be used against the man, that whatever he was to confess could have the leverage desperately needed to hold over the other’s head.

       “I’m listening,” Akechi said.

       “It is,” Kurusu said, Akechi could hear the steps, one — two, as the other man walked to where the counter began, no doubt. “Stepping between that woman and that man changed everything,” Kurusu explained. Akechi turned to face him, then, counter still separating the men. “My parents threw me out for a year, I kept my head down during probation and I made it out alive.” The barista laughed, the sound mirthless his gaze trailing from Akechi and back, “And that meant, keeping my mouth shut.”

       Akechi’s gaze bore into the man as he spoke, dissecting little by little every word he spoke, searching for something to use — to abuse, at first, but with that — that mention of forced silence, he stopped. That make something ache deep within the detective. It beckoned something to rise from the depths of his mind, his heart. 

       Kurusu wasn’t done speaking, though. In fact, gestured to Akechi then, “I mean it when I say that it helps to know people like you are out there — stepping in, catching the bad guys when people like are getting arrested for trying to do what’s right.” The barista looked from left to right, as if to make sure that he and Akechi truly were the only ones present when he spoke. Akechi refused to acknowledge how he understood the compulsion. “You know, it makes me think, that maybe one day, that woman will come forward and tell people what really happened.” The grin, the manic one that Kurusu wore when Akechi had been positive he was to attack him earlier showed itself then, and the detective was left breathless in its presence — in Kurusu’s presence. “And maybe, just maybe, it could reach the man who did this to her, to me, and he’ll change. He’ll pay.”

       Akechi stared for a moment longer than acceptable at Kurusu and was nearly speechless at how raw, how powerful, Kurusu’s words had been. How Kurusu had given Akechi all the weapons he needed to gut Kurusu and eviscerated himself with his own hands instead, leaving Akechi with all the information he needed, yet nothing to hold onto. 

       All Akechi was left with was words, which could never be as powerful as Kurusu’s were in that moment.

       Again something stirred within the chest of the detective. And for the first time since learning what fate he’d wrought for woman in Research and Development, he did not feel pity, but sympathy. 

       What could Akechi say? He was all too familiar with having to grin and bear the injustices of this life.

       “You are bitter…”Akechi eventually said, unable to conjure anything else.

       “As hell —,” Kurusu confirmed, features falling back into that easy smile once more. It’s funny, truly, how Akechi hadn’t once considered that Kurusu could have been wearing a mask of his own. “But I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation. Isn’t that what you’re trying to do, too?”

       “It is the human condition,” Akechi said, as though he still counted among their numbers, that he was not a monster in the guise of man — that the stirring in his chest meant that not all was lost, that he could come out of this, the usurping of Masayoshi Shido, unscathed. That he, could recover — that monsters did not always beget monsters.

**Hope** did not stumble into Akechi’s life once before. 

Why would it start now?

       “Either way,” Kurusu stated, “good luck.”

       Akechi nodded, the corners of his lips tugging ever so slightly upwards, even as he turned to leave. He stopped though, right before the door, and turned to see Kurusu still watching him.

       “Kurusu —, perhaps we might be civil, if only for Mishima’s sake.” He said, standing stock still despite the urge to rock back on his heels, the urge to shrug his shoulders. He recognized the compulsion as anxiety, a sort of nervous energy that rushed through his form. Akechi attributed the feeling to a long day, to the intensity of their exchange, rather than the thought that Kurusu could be disinterested in his suggestion.

       “Yeah,” Kurusu grinned, this expression a lot softer than its predecessor. “For Mishima.”

       With that, Akechi smiled in response, actively avoiding acknowledging how the ache in his jaw was comforting rather than trying, that it mirrored his interactions with Mishima.

       Akechi turned to leave, opening the door to Leblanc only for a black cat with white paws to scurry past him through the small opening. Akechi turned back in time to watch the catch jump into a seat and then onto the counter, catching Kurusu’s attention.

       “Oh, I’m sorry.” Akechi apologized, looking from the cat, to the door and then Kurusu when the barista waved him off.

       “No big deal,” Kurusu explained, “It’s just Morgana. He comes around here often.”


	10. am i a monster — or worse, just a man?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shido is keeping tabs on Akechi. He'll have to be more careful. Since Shido seems to think it appropriate to add pressure to an impending engagement to the mix, Akechi will have to add another mask to his ever growing repertoire, the perfect gentleman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's an update schedule? Obviously those words don't exist in my vocabulary. Anyway, here's the latest installment of 'empires burn in his veins'. I hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
> Let me know what you think on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments! Constructive criticism and just little notes of things you liked are welcome!

       What an unexpected turn Goro Akechi’s interaction with Akira Kurusu had taken. First, Kurusu had taken the form of a lost man at a television studio, to that of a bartender. Then, he wore the guise of a delinquent. Next he became Mishima’s best friend. And finally, he became a man who seemed to rival Akechi himself. 

       Akira Kurusu had become all of those things and more, seemingly springing from nothing, only to exist as a complex piece of a puzzle that had Akechi thoroughly interested — though he would never admit it.

       What struck Akechi, though, was after learning of the assault that plagued Kurusu’s record — how the information — the details — were redacted. It was easy to suspect the man who Kurusu had interrupted in an attempt to protect what he saw as a helpless woman was someone of influence. The attacker had power, if he was able to convince the woman to testify against Kurusu. 

       Silencing a victim was a clear sign of such. He was familiar with such tactics.

       The redacted record, Mishima’s trust, and Kurusu’s testimony led Akechi to believe the story of a teen preventing an assault, however improbable.

       The attacker, the unnamed man, had something to lose — something to protect, especially if he was willing to damn a child for life. 

       Akechi scoffed as he considered Kurusu’s position. He knew his own father to do the same and worse. Anyone’s life, besides Shido’s own, was expendable. Yet, wasn’t Akechi turning out the same? He was willing to risk Niijima to protect Mishima — or was it that he was confident enough that the thugs in Shibuya wouldn’t lay a hand on her because she was known to associate with the son of the man who pulled the strings of their leader?

       A sigh parted his lips as he entered his apartment, staring at the empty, nearly lifeless space he inhabited only with the intention of sleeping and working, long past his hours at the office and even longer past the time he allotted for his course work.

       Before he could submit himself to the will of a scholar, though, reporting to Shido that Niijima was on the case was imperative. 

       The number was dialed before Akechi could allow himself a moment to consider avoiding the interaction. His father expected timely results and to keep up the ruse of being a loyal son, Akechi was forced to provide them.

       The phone rang once, twice, before Shido answered. 

       “I trust you call with good news,” Shido said.

       “Niijima is on the case,” Akechi reported, the edge of his tone taking on a tone of faux satisfaction. He smiled despite lacking an audience, letting molten silver coat his tongue, the guise of a serpent veiling his persona. “I anticipate it will not be long now until her intervention forces my hand. The _fools_ will surely take the bait.”

       “Good,” Shido responded. “I trust you will be prepared to immediately respond when she requests your assistance —,” He paused, his next words sounding all too much like a threat and a promise, a callous reminder of what was at stake here, “It would be a shame for such a promising young woman to be compromised by hearing something she shouldn’t from such filth.”

       Akechi, had he been a lesser man, not so used to Shido’s tactics, would have winced at the implications. Instead, he continued to present as cavalier. 

       “As if I approached Niijima without a plethora of information at my disposal.” Akechi scoffed. “Luring her into accepting responsibility was slight of hand, childish gimmicks.”

       A smug laugh resounded over the line.

       “Then you will have no trouble accepting another task,” Shido said.

       “I believe I have proved myself more than capable of completing whatever assignments you choose to place before me,” Akechi responded.

       “You are to be seen in public with Okumura’s daughter, Haru — under the pretenses of date.”

       Akechi, to his credit, didn’t startle at the demand, though his curiosity was piqued by the seemingly sudden insistence that he and Okumura be tied together in the eyes of people. He pried, making bold assumptions that Shido would be forced to correct if only to maintain the power dynamic the politician believed existed between father and son.

       “The CEO making demands of the man who put him in power — who promised him influence beyond measure?” Akechi said, “I admit I am surprised you are willing to appease him.”

       “I believe you know better than to question my actions, Akechi,” Shido countered, though his words were predictable and unoriginal, another day, another subtle threat.

       “My apologies, Shido-san,” Akechi said, feigning remorse. “Though, I am curious as to your plan involving Kunikazu Okumura.”

       “Soon enough, he’ll require no further consideration,” Shido declared, effectively barring the topic from further discussion. “Until then, introduce the public and Haru’s father to the idea that their detective prince is courting a corporate heiress.”

       It seemed Akechi would get nothing more from Shido now on his plans for the CEO of Okumura Foods, though from the sound of it, the man was on thin ice. The implications of someone requiring ‘no further consideration’ wasn’t lost on the detective. For his daughter’s sake, Akechi could only hope Okumura’s father would survive what Shido had planned for him.

       “Have you already made a reservation?” Akechi asked, accommodating Shido’s unspoken demand of dropping the subject.

       “I had an associate place one under your name at a restaurant you seemed to enjoy,” Akechi could hear the bite in his father’s tone, the dangerous smirk no doubt lingering on his features. “— according to that blog you insist upon updating in your free time.”

       Akechi did not immediately reply, breath catching in his throat. The food blog he ran, when he found the time, was something public. He shouldn’t be surprised Shido was aware of its existence, but the threat of being watched, of being tracked, hung heavy in the air in that statement. 

       Shido _was_ keeping tabs on Akechi.

       He would have to be more careful.

       “I — I was not aware you knew of that hobby of mine.”

      “What kind of parent would I be if I did not take an interest in your life?” Shido asked, haughty as ever in his response.

       “Understood,” Akechi said, nodding as he spoke, “I will call Haru first thing in the morning.” He took pause, aiming a question to Shido, “Am I to understand your associates will alert the press of the time and location of our rendezvous — so that they might secure one or two headlines of interest?”

       “Be a perfect gentleman, Akechi,” Shido commanded, that being answer enough to Akechi’s previous inquiry, “Japan is watching.”

       “I will not disappoint you.”

       “I expect nothing less.”

       With that, the conversation with Shido came to an end. Akechi had no desire to but to carelessly toss aside his belongings, rid himself of the tie that suddenly felt so constricting and throw himself into bed. This, though, was not an option for the detective, the student, the man who was barely holding himself together. If he allowed himself to relax, allowed the walls erected around his heart — his mind — to drop even momentarily beyond the streets of Shinjuku, the discipline he’d spent years cultivating would be for not.

       Instead, Akechi carefully placed his items where they belonged, changed into one of the few sets of casual clothes he owned, the bright red hoodie pulled over his head one moment, a single pair of sweatpants cladding his lower body and a band to pull back his hair, to keep it out of his face. He quickly began brewing instant coffee and dropped himself at a desk, preparing to work himself to the point of exhaustion, alarms carefully set so that when he inevitably succumbed to slumber, he wouldn’t be late for the next day’s appointments.

       Akechi made the call the next morning. The request to take Haru Okumura out that evening was quickly accepted. Part of Akechi suspected that Shido and Kunikazu Okumura had convened over the subject of when this date was to take place. He only hoped Haru hadn’t been forced to cancel any meaningful plans she had that evening for the sake of performing for their fathers and by extension, the people of Japan.

       He played the role of gentleman perfectly, if by chance Mr. Okumura had been listening in on the conversation. Akechi wouldn’t put it past Kunikazu Okumura or Masayoshi Shido to oversee their interactions in some way or another, to ensure that the ‘power couple’ they intended to create would come to fruition.

       As it stood, there were many unpleasant things Goro Akechi was forced to face in his life. 

       Being on date with Haru Okumura wasn’t one of those. The heiress was objectively beautiful, more than capable of holding an intelligent conversation, and kind beyond all measure. This was all despite the abuse suffered at the hand of her former fiancé.

       Akechi believed he could learn many things from Okumura. Patience being one of those things. He knew she desired to be a confidant of his and despite his constant maintaining a distance of arms length between them, she remained a constant in his life. Part of him wished he could give her that, and a better life than she would have from being betrothed to a man like himself.

       Objectively, Goro Akechi knew he was very lucky. Shido could have matched him with less attractive women in that they could have been strangers, not that he’s objected to the company of strangers in the past. In fact, he often preferred them — if only to fill a void, if only to stoke the fires of danger within himself, a futile effort to feel something other than the weight of his choices. 

       Men and women and their greedy hands were always reaching toward him and if they caught him, at the right moment, just on the edge of thinking too much and not enough, he’d play a game, whistle a tune and take control in the one place, at least for now, that Shido couldn’t be the sovereign of.

       Part of him knew it was strange way to rebel. Akechi was introspective enough to recognize what his behavior was — a coping mechanism. Not a good one, but one all the same. He thought, that if he connected to people — kept some connection to humanity, however primal, it would slow his transformation into someone or something he wouldn’t recognize. 

       In a way, Akechi knew he was a prince by day and an ogre by night.

       He was drawn from his thoughts by Okumura addressing him.

       “Thank you for inviting me out, Akechi. This restaurant is lovely,” She said, smiling kindly from across the small table Shido had reserved for them at a restaurant that Akechi rated pretty high on his website. 

       He paid little attention to how his father seemed to have chosen this one because of the ‘ _romantic atmosphere that would surely prove capable of impressing one’s significant other_.’

       “It is a pleasure, Okumura-san,” Akechi replied, a small smile pulling at his features, mirroring his companion’s gentle demeanor. “I only apologize that I could not give you more notice than an afternoon. Certainly, you can understand how my schedule fairly rarely allows me free time.” He gestured between the two of them. “Given our status, it seemed best to be proactive in getting to know you better.”

       “Or allowing the public to get to know us together better,” Okumura simply responded, gracefully lifting a glass of water their waiter had left with them to her lips.

       “I — am almost relieved that you understand the nature of this outing,” Akechi said and sighed softly, the smile pulling at his features feeling significantly less strained than a moment before. Haru Okumura was also intuitive, another positive quality. Her understanding the nature of this outing, her being on the same page of him, made this easier.

       “I overheard my father speaking with yours,” Okumura said, the smile on her face faltering, however minutely. Her gaze settled on the table, rather than Akechi’s form.

       Akechi didn’t comment on the shift of her expression, understanding all too well how it must feel to have your free will seized, over and over again, by someone who was meant to care for you, not control you.

       “My father also insisted I take you out, if only to placate Mr. Okumura,” Akechi explained, noting his own father’s influence in this meeting. “Of course, he is still adamant that you and I shall be wed one day, but has allowed us the mercy of finishing university before so.”

       “Our status doesn’t allow much freedom,” Okumura added, posture improving as she smiled, meeting Akechi’s gaze. There was something unbearably genuine in what she said next, “But if I was forced to spend the rest of my life with someone, I believe I could do far worse than yourself.”

       Akechi swallowed hard, both relishing and disapproving of the praise. Okumura was truly too kind for her own good. Despite his discomfort, he forced a soft laugh between his lips.

       “Given your previous fiancé,” Akechi said, plastic smile pulling at his lips, charisma soaring past debonair, he decided to make light of their arrangement, “I would consider it an honor to serve as your trophy husband.”

       “I could take you out on dates in public, of course — for our dear fathers’ sake,” She said with a smile, a quiet laugh escaping her, “We’ll make nice — be picturesque.”

       “We have certainly been groomed to fulfill such a fate.” Akechi noted, continuing the charade, “Should we already choose names for the children? — If I am to fulfill my role of trophy husband properly, we’ll have to hire a nanny to care for them while I attend avant-garde gatherings on your arm.”

       The two shared another laugh at the preposterous image Akechi conjured with such a suggestion, but as soon as the tension was gone, the silence that settled over them beckoned it back. Okumura seemed to search Akechi’s expression for something. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but then she smiled a small smile that assured everyone she was fine despite her troubles once more.

       “Might I ask why you are so opposed to such an arrangement, Akechi?” She asked, “The arranged marriage of sorts — why does it bother you so much?”

       If Akechi were to answer honestly, he could say a number of things. He could confess that he was guilty of a number of crimes by association, he could say that he’s taken a life before and that he’s the reason any number of people are dead or being victimized. Akechi could say he wasn’t worthy of Haru Okumura. He could admit that he didn’t think he was capable of love or being loved, not after the death of his mother. 

       And last, but not least, a perhaps the quietest part of him said that he opposed this arrangement because he was willing to sacrifice anything and everything to destroy Shido and he didn’t want her to have to pay the price for his transgressions.

       Instead, he told an easier truth, one that made him seem both humble and noble.

       “I only wish my intervention could have granted you more than a match with myself,” Akechi responded, tilting his head almost conspiratorially, voice dropping towards a whisper, “As you know, I tend not to lean towards sentimentality, but you deserve far better than what I could ever offer you.”

       She mirrored his actions, voice just as quiet.

       “I believe you tend to be too hard on yourself, Akechi.” She said, then leaned up and spoke with a sort of pride and confidence Akechi only wished he could naturally conjure. She looked at him and smiled, the expression lighting up her entire face. “Was it not you who saw me suffer and stepped in because you had the means when I did not have the courage?— Your strength inspires me, Akechi. It would be an honor to spend the rest of my life with you, as your friend or as your wife.”

       For a long moment, Akechi said nothing. Sometimes, he forgot the type of man everyone else believed him to be, the detective prince. The guise he wore so often, the one he wanted to believe was his true self, but knew was just a farce. All the same, this knowledge didn’t stop Akechi from smiling slightly at Okumura’s compliment and returning one in kind.

       “As it the same with you, Okumura. — Despite your trials, your suffering has only made you kind.” He paused, and with all the sincerity he could muster, so much so that he believed if for but a moment that he genuinely meant it, he said,“If I could learn anything from you, I would hope it could be that.”

       “Akechi,” Okumura said, “may I ask you a personal question?”

       “Will I regret agreeing to this?” Akechi responded, then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “I jest, of course. What is it you wish to know?” 

       “What is it you fear?” She asked.

       “Pardon?” Akechi replied, more than a little surprised at her inquiry. Perhaps he had underestimated just how intuitive the young woman was, or perhaps he was presenting himself as far more nervous than he intended to be.

       “We are very rarely alone,” She said, and looked both ways before returning her attention to Akechi, “— and I understand we are in public, but I doubt the chains in Yusuke’s work are simply signs of your status. I’m your friend, and I can help, but only if you tell me what’s wrong.”

       He was almost relieved that she revealed the source of her anxiety about Akechi’s status was Kitagawa’s art. In fact, it caused a nearly easy smile to pull at his features, to assuage her worries, of course.

       “What have I to fear, Okumura?” Akechi asked, “— The answer is truly nothing.” The lies fell from his lips with such ease. How many times had he looked in the mirror and told himself these things, how many times had he rehearsed this particular page of the script he’d adapted to survive living as the son of Masayoshi Shido? He’d lost count long ago. “I have a father who provides for me, a promising career as a detective ahead of me, and an abundance of friends. There is no need to fear anything.”

       “My ex-fiancé is behind bars,” Okumura confessed, like Kurusu, expressing vulnerability if only to encourage him to do the same. “— And I still fear when I hear footsteps outside my bedroom door all the same.”

       “Not everyone has ghosts, Okumura,” Akechi responded, simply shaking his head.

       “Akechi —,” Okumura began, though Akechi interrupted her before she could say anymore than just his name.

       “Haru — that’s enough.” His tone was too sharp, too defensive, nearly venomous then. He knew she didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way and found himself nearly scrambling to overcorrect the slight. Akechi quickly apologized as best as he could,“Please, I know what I’m doing.” He smiled, though he was well aware it came across more like a grimace. “Your future husband will emerge from his trials unscathed. I promise. And I will never raise my voice towards you again. You are simply trying to help — and my actions were uncalled for.”

       He bowed his head, then, the truest expression of remorse he could conjure.

       Okumura smiled softly, gently. The expression was lacquered in melancholy, though held some sense of understanding all the same. The look on her face took Akechi back to the moment he first asked her about her ex-fiancé. Haru Okumura was too well versed in the art of grinning and bearing when it came to suffering — especially when someone she cared for was involved.

       Akechi never wanted to be the reason she made that face. It was further proof that this needed to end, this ruse, this charade of a detective prince. For what kind of friends forced their own to suffer in silence? What kind of man hung himself where he knew he would have an audience?

       He had tried to keep people at a distance. He had tried to protect them from the potential backlash of a series of choices he already made — he wanted to shield them from the chain of events set in motion from the moment he chose to avenge his mother.

       Haru Okumura deserved much more than a broken boy held together by a web of lies. Yuuki Mishima deserved more than a borderline addict who only called when he’d been out too long. Makoto Niijima deserved someone who believed in her, a true rival. Yusuke Kitagawa deserved a muse who could allow him to paint something beautiful, not something pained. Ryuji Sakamoto deserved a hero — someone who did step in, despite himself, despite the risks — despite other obligations.

       And Akira Kurusu —. People like Kurusu, those wronged by the system deserved a detective who would live and die by Justice, one who would not bought or swayed by petty things and payments of power or money. They deserved everything Akechi wanted to be — but couldn’t, at least not in this life.

       Then, Okumura laughed so softly that Akechi barely witness some mirthless expression appear and disappear across her features between blinks. Akechi arched a brow.

       “Might I ask what’s funny?”

       “Oh, it’s nothing. — I just believe that’s one of the few times you’ve called me by my first name.”


	11. distorted features

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t ignore the quiet voice in the back of his head, the one that whispered of what happened to his mother, who he loved, despite her faults. He paid close attention to the voice that conjured of images of what he became when she was taken from him, the life he was forced to live without her. Akechi heeded the voice’s warning that suffering another loss would surely cripple him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I obviously don't believe in update schedules, but I'll at least try to post a chapter every other week. Come find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) to know what I'm working on or if I'm facing writer's block. ( That happens a lot. ) Also, let me know what you think in the comments! I appreciate any and all feedback.

       Despite the barest of edge of a smile pulling at his lips, Akechi didn’t visibly startle at Okumura’s observation. Haru Okumura has been a fixture in his life for many years now. She has been there the longest of all of his acquaintances. If her presence in his life was merely a matter of circumstance, chance, or fate, he didn’t know.

       All he knew was that he rarely called anyone around him by their first name. The thought of it was too intimate, too personal. It crossed a boundary that Akechi set in stone long ago. It was a pivotal wall in the line of defenses Akechi erected to protect those around him from the consequences of his actions, the choices he made in his one man war against the villain of his story.

       He couldn’t ignore the quiet voice in the back of his head, the one that whispered of what happened to his mother, who he loved, despite her faults. He paid close attention to the voice that conjured of images of what he became when she was taken from him, the life he was forced to live without her. Akechi heeded the voice’s warning that suffering another loss would surely cripple him.

       That was something he couldn’t allow. Avenging his mother, avenging himself — he’d given to much to those causes to turn back now. That aside, if he didn’t bring down Masayoshi Shido, no one would.

       Therefore, it didn’t matter how many people tried to reach out to him, and it certainly didn’t matter how the curve of Haru’s mouth rose in time with his own.

       Akechi couldn’t lead her to ruin.

       Akechi couldn’t lose sight of his mission.

       He already allowed Mishima to claim the role of an unnecessary distraction, whose use had long expired. For what? All because Mishima knew too much, or because Mishima seemed to understand when to step in and back off? The danger the mere association with the other man placed the both of them in was unprecedented.

       Akechi couldn't afford anymore mistakes, not when Shido was watching.

       “I’m sorry,” Akechi apologized, shaking his head. Despite the edges of the small smile pulling at his features turning to glass, he didn’t allow the expression to fall from his features. “I didn’t realize.”

       “It’s okay, Akechi —,” She said, still sporting the smile that bloomed into existence when she saw Akechi grin. “I believe I’ve told you before, Haru is fine.”

       “I’ll do my best to keep that in mind,” Akechi replied, despite having no intention to change how he referred to Okumura.

       Perhaps, one day, he wouldn’t have to lie.

       “What I mean to say is,” She amended, “doesn’t a husband usually address his wife by her first name?”

       He fought valiantly against the mirthless laugh that threatened to erupt from his chest at her question. Shido, whether conscious of his ruthlessness or not, was merciless in his demands of the masks Akechi would wear. Akechi thought that perhaps Shido had long believed that he’d lost sight of the one that was his own, beneath the roles he was forced to play, the personas he was forced to adopt to act out his father’s will.

       Admittedly, he didn’t know which face belonged to him, but he knew it still existed, however buried. Akechi pitied Okumura, who truly wouldn’t understand how much it was asking of him, to tack another mask to his distorted features — a role that required something of him that he felt he could not give. 

       This too, would take from him, would force him to sacrifice one of the few things he knew remained of himself. 

       What was worse, was that he couldn’t argue with her. This was just further proof that he wasn’t meant for any life beyond the one he’d chosen for himself, the one he’d been forced into by having Shido as a father. Okumura truly did deserve much better than what Akechi could give her. She deserved a man who wouldn’t struggle to say her first name, who wouldn’t be behind bars or dead himself in a few months time.

       One who wouldn’t sully her name by mere association.

       Akechi believed anyone deserved more than he could ever hope to offer.

       Despite this, he smiled, the sharp edges of his glass smile digging at the corners of his mouth.

       “Well — Haru,” He said, nearly loathing how contrived the name sounded coming out of his mouth,“— I believe that man wouldn’t be married at all.”

       From then on, the rest of the evening had Akechi and Okumura trading smiles and laughs, however artificial. The two spoke of their aspirations and their chances of success, all veiled under the pretense of what was expected of them: Okumura’s coffee shop and Akechi’s interest, however slight, in being a novelist of sorts.

       “You certainly do know enough,” Okumura had said.

       “I was always fond of stories,” Akechi had responded, thoughts of heroes and villain filling his mind, visions of underdogs and those with power paired with malicious intent.

       He didn’t really know which side of the spectrum he fell on anymore.

       Eventually, the two parted ways. Feigning obliviousness to the cameras, he escorted the heiress to the car that her father hired to pick her up.

       Returning to his apartment seemed futile, but anything else would draw the attention of his father’s associates and he needed to stay in line, to cooperate, to play the role best he could for at least a while longer.

      The next morning, he received word from Mishima.

       The other man offered to rendezvous that afternoon at the diner they frequented in their meetings. Akechi accepted quickly, and he showed up to find the young man with a schoolbag pressed against his chest. Mishima’s eyes glanced around the space, a small smile gracing his lips as he caught sight of Akechi.

       The detective refused to acknowledge how the thought of how conspicuous Mishima was being brought a grin to his own lips in turn. He took a seat across from the other man and prompted Mishima to explain what he called upon Akechi for. Mishima explained that he had gathered a list of names and was prepared to deliver the information to Akechi, who could give it to Niijima at his earliest convenience. 

       He then proceeded to tell Akechi that for now, he had decided to withhold it.

       The look of determination in Mishima’s eyes surprised Akechi, but more than that, it concerned him. Akechi had created these circumstances with the intent that Mishima could assist them in eliminating the threat to his own wellbeing, despite not knowing such a threat existed, and so that Akechi himself could maintain his appearance of loyalty to Shido and only Shido.

       “Niijima,” Mishima said, “pursuing this case — trying to apprehend a mob boss.” He trailed off, shoulders slouching as he curled in on himself, even as curve of his mouth fell into a thin line. “Akechi, is that really such a good idea?”

       Akechi should have anticipated the trademark Mishima uncertainty. It seemed, despite being involved in Kamoshida’s case, Niijima didn’t inspire the same level of confidence in Mishima that Akechi did. He was flattered, but also curious. 

       Part of Akechi considered that it might have something to do with the fact that she overlooked so many things involving Shujin students before Akechi’s timely intervention. Instead of probing for further information, though, Akechi chose to address the issue head on. He might not hold the title of Mishima’s best friend, but he believed he knew Mishima well enough to persuade him to concede without any more information. 

       He would convince Mishima that there was no other option because there wasn’t. The students would not be saved, Mishima would be in danger and Akechi could lose the ground he held with Shido. 

       It was Niijima or nothing. 

       He would simply have to make that clear.

       Even if he was lying through his teeth.

       “I am confident in her abilities, Mishima. I would not have suggested her intervention if I believed otherwise.” He stated, in an attempt to be both reassuring and concrete. Then, with surprising ease, he referenced the implications of questioning his decision. “And I believe we can both agree that it’s better than the alternative, which would be no one looking to help your classmates.”

       Akechi found it troublesome how Mishima didn’t even seem to notice the threat that subtly weaved its way through his words, of how Akechi could remove Niijima from the case and leave Shujin’s students and how many others at the mercy of Kaneshiro. Baseless as the threat might be, Mishima only asked Akechi of his intent, so certain that the man, the detective he knew, would do whatever it took.

       The lines blurred ever more each day.

       “You would intervene if you could, right?” Mishima asked.

       “Absolutely,” Akechi said in response, a single nod punctuating the statement.

       The melancholy that prompted him to return the smile Mishima offered then, Akechi knew too well. It was because he spoke the truth. If Akechi believed he could intervene without losing sight of his goal, then without question, he would pry the lives — the futures — the innocents from the cold dead hands of every man and woman who thought they should lay claim to a child’s potential for their own benefit.

       He would start with Shido, of course, and could only hope the ripple effect of usurping an abuser would spread, reverberating through the tangled web his father had woven.

       Akechi was determined to shake the very foundation of the country all by shattering the glass beneath Shido’s feet as the pinnacle of his career.

       “So, this is what I was able to collect from the website,” Mishima said then, tearing Akechi from his thoughts, “it’s a little more in depth than what you and Ryuji were able to collect.” 

       He opened the bag in his lap and and began pulling out files, filled with screenshots he’s taken of the website, messages between himself and victims. Mishima had names and contact information, haunts, workplaces, and class schedules. He truly had anything Niijima might need. He even signed off every correspondence with a promise. 

_Robin Hood will uncover the truth_. _— Admin_

       “This is very thorough,” Akechi noted, after examining the contents for a few moments, quickly depositing them into his briefcase.

       “I keep tabs on things that spark my interest,” Mishima said, sliding a flash drive across the table, “or things that seem a little different than some user using the forum as an outlet.”

       “And then,” Akechi responded, seizing the drive within his grasp and pocketing it in one swift movement, “when the information becomes substantial, you deliver it to me.” He smiled, “— Perhaps you should pursue the life of a detective, Mishima. You are certainly rather adept at it.”

       “I just —,” The other man said, posture straightening, as his voice lost any waver it once held. It was truly a marvel how Mishima could switch gears so easily when he was sure of himself. If Akechi was being honest with himself, he would say the other man nearly reminded him of himself, “I don’t like people getting pushed around,” Mishima continued, even as his gaze dropped to the table. “After what happened to me, my teammates, and Shiho.” Akechi recognized the guilt in his tone. He still held himself responsible for everything that happened to him, what being under Kamoshida’s influence turned him into, “— Not to mention leaking Akira’s criminal record to the whole school when he first transferred.” He met Akechi’s gaze then, “I want to make amends.”

       Something in his chest ached at Mishima’s confession. He had suspected, of course, that this was why Mishima was so adamant about helping Akechi however he could, but he never wanted to believe that Mishima considered himself still at fault for having his hand forced in order to survive.

       He told Mishima just as much.

       “You were forced into a position where doing wrong was the only way to survive,” Akechi said, speaking softly, “No one can hold that against you, Mishima. You are atoning.”

       “If you’d believe it,” Mishima replied, a small smile pulling at his features, “I really only joined volleyball because it was something I was good at. Growing up, I was bullied relentlessly. They called me a ‘zero’. And then,” He paused a beat, “I don’t know, I got it in my mind that the attention, good or bad, was better than nothing.” He sighed, and shrugged. “At least, Kamoshida thought I was worth having on the team.”

       Akechi supposed these were the type of things Kurusu already knew about Mishima, the things the other man had taken the time to learn. As it happened, Akechi never stayed long enough to listen to these anecdotes Mishima undoubtedly had to offer before. His lingering at this meeting, conscious or not, was likely an effect of his envy of Kurusu’s closeness to Mishima or maybe even a base impulse to have Mishima remain in his sight as long as he considered the potential danger to his well-being.

       Or maybe, just maybe, he was remembering that there was far more to people than what met the eye, than what use they could provide. Perhaps this was a part of the face that belonged to him. If only he could truly tell the difference anymore.

       “Certainly,” Akechi offered, “you understand, that if you are only assisting me out of obligation, that it is unnecessary.”

       “Akechi, you saved us.” Mishima said, “I’ll owe you a debt I can never repay. Kamoshida broke Ryuji’s leg, he — he forced himself on Shiho and I don’t even know how many other girls on the team. He believed himself untouchable and then you —.” Mishima shook his head, “You came around.”

       If Akechi wasn’t so practiced in maintaining his composure, he was certain that the way Mishima was looking at him now would have his jaw hanging agape. It really was why he continued to spend time with the other man, because he looked at Akechi like he was something important, like he mattered.

       “I —,” Akechi said, “I just wanted to help.”

       “And you did. — I’m just trying to return the favor,” Mishima responded, gaze dropping to lap.

       Akechi was more than thankful for the reprieve.

       “Mishima —,” Akechi said hesitantly. He looked away from the other man then, towards the door of the diner. He wondered, if subconsciously, he was considering turning and leaving, never to look back because he felt far too exposed right now. Akechi couldn’t understand how Mishima had seen him at his worst and still looked at him like he was anything more than a borderline addict, that the good he did overcame the bad, that he wasn’t weak for suffering at his father’s hand or trying to find a way to survive the life he was forced to live in. Nevertheless, he was grateful for it. He was grateful for Mishima. “I just want to say, even if you weren’t helping me, I am grateful to have met you.”

       “I’m sorry it had to be under the circumstances it did,” Mishima said, a soft, albeit forced laugh escaping him, “With me, being a victim — again.”

       “I don’t think of you as a victim, Mishima.” Akechi looked back at Mishima. “— You’re a friend.”

       “Akira,” Mishima said, unprompted, to the surprise of Akechi, “Akira — said something like that, when I explained why I felt compelled to help that kid in Shibuya.” Mishima laughed again, this one just as soft, but laced with a fondness that Akechi couldn’t place, “He said, that, if you were the guy I thought you were, that’s what you would think of me.”

       “Well,” Akechi conceded, thinking back to the raven haired man who somehow changed Akechi’s perspective of him overnight. “He was right.”

       “He also mentioned that you were at Leblanc,” Mishima said, “He might have said something about it being under the pretense of tutoring Ryuji…”

       Akechi felt heat rise to his features, but quickly banished the sensation. Of course, Kurusu had seen through his ruse. Akechi had only hoped the barista’s questions about placing Niijima at the head of the Kaneshiro case would have him believe it was simply for that purpose that he showed his face at all.

       “Yes,” Akechi responded, “I spoke with Kurusu.”

       “He said you guys worked things out.”

       “We came to an understanding of sorts,” Akechi said, with a nod.

       “Well, thanks, Akechi.” Mishima smiled. “For giving him, and a ‘zero’ like me, a chance.”

       Akechi sighed, considering how Mishima wasn’t the only person who believed he owed someone something, but said nothing. Instead, he returned Mishima’s grin.


	12. an amalgamation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makoto Niijima suggested meeting at Leblanc to exchange the information he collected from Mishima and Akechi could conjure no reasonable argument to refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is so late. I'm so sorry for the delay guys. Don't be fooled, writing is hard. Writing, working, college, and being an adult is even more difficult. So, given how trying this was to put out, I'd totally appreciate any feedback you guys have to offer. Leave your thoughts in the comments or come talk to me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha). I won't keep you, though! Without further adieu, have this update!

       The following days were cumbersome. Yet, between appointments with Shido and keeping up with coursework, Akechi continued to perform above and beyond the expected standards of his internship. It would be necessary, he had rationalized, to have some credibility established within the ranks of Japan’s criminal justice system, especially if he wished to have Shido tried properly. 

       Even if Akechi had long since silenced the part of himself that hoped he would be remembered for more than just being the equally insidious son of Shido, his efforts to assist with what skills he gathered as a detective never faltered.

       He mused that traces of hope, however minuscule, would do that to a person.

       Having boarded a train after said internship, Akechi found himself at the stop that would lead him to Yongen-Jaya. Makoto Niijima had suggested meeting at Leblanc to exchange the information Akechi collected from Mishima.

       He could conjure no reasonable argument to refuse. 

       Akechi supposed that’s how he once again found himself face to face with Kurusu, Niijima having quickly vacated the premises after getting her hands on the information. Her enthusiasm and drive was admirable and despite Akechi’s doubts, he hoped she wouldn’t find herself in too much trouble as she attempted to build a case to justify Kaneshiro’s arrest.

       That being said, he was a little irritable at having been abandoned with three fourths a cup of coffee before him. Akechi simply _had_ to stay until the coffee that had been placed before him was drained, because he didn’t need Kurusu believing he was rude and ungrateful after all he’d already seen of Akechi. Despite being aware he could attribute such thoughts to the paranoia that comes with living a life like his, Akechi couldn’t convince himself to leave. Not yet, at least. 

       Kurusu had been quiet while Akechi spoke with Niijima and Akechi called himself lucky for that, as well as how adeptly Akechi avoided allowing the cat — _Morgana, was it?_ — into the small cafe when he had entered the shop. Perhaps, he would also be lucky enough to finish his coffee in peace.

       It seemed his luck ran dry.

       After a few minutes of Akechi simply studying Kurusu as he maneuvered around the small kitchen space, the raven haired man turned around, flashing a smile at having caught Akechi staring.

       “Oh, you’re still here.” Kurusu said, neutral features betraying the faux surprise lining his tone. He seemed to realize this, the barest edge of a grin pulling at his features as he continued speaking indicating such. “I thought you would have left.”

       If Akechi didn’t know better, he might have guessed that Kurusu was teasing him. Their familiarity, or lack thereof, shouldn’t allow for such gestures. Nonetheless, Akechi returned the barista’s expression with a smile of his own that likely came across more akin to a grimace.

       “And waste a perfectly good cup of coffee?” Akechi responded, words stilted. If Akechi were a lesser man, he would have winced at his own display, of how contrived it appeared. If Kurusu hadn’t caught onto Akechi’s initial discomfort with the situation, the detective’s response certainly would have confirmed his status.

       Having Akechi’s facade cracked in the presence of Kurusu made for a vulnerability that Akechi couldn’t allow, yet it was so obvious that he couldn’t avoid it, either. Kurusu’s perception of him was an amalgamation of too many different personas. In short, Akechi found himself almost at a loss on how to act, especially after their last encounter.

       Piecing together masks was a tedious process. Current events just had to undermine the ones he already had. 

       Akechi heard a sigh from across the counter, drawing his attention to the man who stood behind the counter. 

       “Is this what it’s going to be like — being civil?” Kurusu asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Shouldn’t we just relax?”

       Relaxing and existing as Goro Akechi were mutually exclusive entities, as far as Akechi was concerned. Kurusu didn’t know this and while Mishima likely suspected something to that effect, Akechi was left with no choice but to simply pretend Kurusu knew less of his life than he did.

       For now, that was truly all he had. Faltering was something Akechi could not afford and while he did not trust Kurusu to keep his mouth shut, Mishima did so that would have to be enough.

       “I apologize, Kurusu —,” Akechi began, forcing a far more pleasant smile to his features. “I was under the impression we worked things out.” The detective shook his head, closing his hands around the coffee cup. “That strikes me as more intimate than civility. Is it not?”

       Akechi took a sip of the coffee, then, mouth curving into a grin as he hears what he assumed to be the undoubtedly unamused huff passing through Kurusu’s lips.

       “Then, what would you call it?” Kurusu asked, to Akechi’s surprise, with the same edge of grin pulling at his lips.

       Akechi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as the sight, but his response wasn’t influenced by Kurusu’s reaction.

       “I believe you and I came to an understanding, at most,” Akechi stated.

       “And wouldn’t you say that both parties involved in an _understanding_ should have a policy of honesty?” Kurusu suggested. 

       “You mean to imply that I am deceiving you.” Akechi said.

       “Your words, Akechi.” Kurusu replied.

       “You should consider who you are speaking with.” Akechi said, tone becoming a touch too sharp for banter. Even spoken with that picture perfect smile, the implications were borderline threatening.

       Kurusu didn’t falter, though, nor did he hesitate at the change in Akechi’s demeanor. In fact, that smile he wore seemed to grow ever so slightly at having garnered a reaction from the detective prince. There was that look in Kurusu’s eyes again, a penchant mischief veiled by thick rimmed glasses. Akechi was not amused at whatever game Kurusu seemed to be playing and was going to tell the barista as much when the other man finally spoke.

       “To me, you’re just a kid who’s struggling.” Kurusu explained, that dangerous glint in his eyes dissipating as quickly as it appeared, “Granted, one that’s a prodigy and worthy of teen gossip.” The barista scratched the back of his head, gaze drifting from Akechi’s form, if only for a moment. “Admittedly, it’s hard not to hear your name around anymore.”

       It was infuriating how Akechi could not seemed to get a read on Kurusu. It was infuriating and fascinating, though he would never admit the latter. With everyone else, he could understand their motivations, their patterns of behavior, but Kurusu was an enigma.

       If he didn’t know better, and Akechi always knew better, he would say that Kurusu was interested in him.

       Akechi breathed a sigh, and took the bait for further conversation Kurusu laid out for him in the form of a single word.

       “Anymore?” Akechi asked.

       “Maybe,” Kurusu said and shook his head. “Maybe, I’m listening for it now.”

       “Are you, perhaps, collecting information about me, Kurusu?” Akechi asked, brow arched.

       “I’m trying to understand you,” Kurusu replied.

       Akechi supposed this confirmed his earlier suspicion. Kurusu was, in fact, interested in him. That being said, Akechi didn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the same curiosity that drew his own attention towards Kurusu. Maybe, it was something different. Either way, he couldn’t allow himself to linger on the implications. Instead, Akechi would do what he did best, deflect.

       “Well, let’s hear it, Kurusu.” Akechi said, “What’s being said?”

       Kurusu’s gaze fell from Akechi’s face once more, grey eyes on the counter separating them as a almost inaudible laugh escaped his lips. When he looked at Akechi once more, he was still smiling.

       “You’re involved with the heiress to Okumura foods, a Shujin Alumni,” Kurusu said.

       Akechi allowed a hand to rest beneath against his chin in mock contemplation, a grin curving the edge of his mouth. Kurusu didn’t have to guess the gesture was tainted with resignation, Akechi would outright tell him. 

       “It’s enlightening to know our interactions in the public eye have had the desired effect,” Akechi said, “Might I allow you in on a little something?” The detective prince asked, “Since you were so bold when we last spoke.”

       “Go ahead.”

       Akechi was treading potentially dangerous waters here, but even if some delinquent were to run around spouting nonsense of a fake relationship between a corporate heiress and a detective prodigy, no one was going to believe him. Musings of his first judgement of Kurusu as being unimportant were thrust once again to the front of his mind. He knew he would do well to keep said judgement in mind — despite what information Kurusu had about him.

       Yet, there was that rotten promise of civility for Mishima’s sake and the near all encompassing compulsion to keep a close eye on Kurusu since the other man was threatening. Knowledge was power and there Akechi was, giving the barista more fuel for the flames.

       “Things are not as they seem,” Akechi said, after a moment too long.

       “Ominous,” Kurusu said, eyes narrowing, “Care to expand?”

       Suddenly, Akechi realized what he was doing, how he was succumbing to a seemingly unprompted compulsion to explain everything. Whether it be the reason he was at the Crossroads in Shinjuku, his niceties in the television studio, his jealousy about Kurusu’s relationship with Mishima, how Kurusu seemed to be close to everyone, knowing Makoto and Sakamoto as he did, Akechi wanted to spout out all of this and more to some nobody in Yongen-Jaya. For what reason? He didn’t know. 

       Was it because Kurusu still didn’t really know who Akechi was supposed to be? 

       Akechi briefly considered how his relationship with Mishima was built upon such standards, the expectations coming after, how he convinced the young man to confide in him, how he promised he would put an end to Kamoshida’s abuse. 

       Nonetheless, Akechi quickly contained and repressed the desire to tear the masks from his features before Kurusu.

       This led Akechi to consider if Kurusu, too, understood how it was, to live a life where things were not what they seemed. In keeping his head down to survive probation when sent to Shujin, surely Kurusu had witnessed plentiful injustice. Surely he had been forced to pretend, too. Kurusu had been trapped, like Mishima, like Ryuji, like Haru, like Yusuke.

       They had all been victims of circumstance and Akechi had liberated them, all except Kurusu. 

       All except himself.

       A quite sigh passed through Akechi’s lips, his eyes lingering on the coffee that lined the shelves behind Kurusu. Playing the role of Goro Akechi, Shido’s son, the Detective Prince, was exhausting. He could allow himself this one reprieve, if only because he’d rather not anything unsavory form in the mind of Kurusu and it make it back to Mishima. Sometimes the dangers of speculation outweighed that of the truth. At least, that’s what he told himself.

       “Okumura is objectively beautiful,” Akechi began, no trace of fondness nor malice in his tone, “She is intelligent and kind beyond all measure, but we convene at the behest of our fathers,” Akechi explained, “Their influence would increase by our union.”

       Akechi was surprised by the response he garnered for the barista. He expected more questions, information about their fathers, but all he got was a statement.

       “So, it’s a farce.” Kurusu said.

       “Yes —,” Akechi said. Then, he shook his head, and amended his response, “and no.”

       “I don’t follow.” Kurusu said.

       “We’ll be wed,” Akechi explained, “if our fathers were to have their way.”

       “So, you’ve got no choice,” Kurusu concluded.

       “I hardly see it that way,” Akechi responded, despite his inclination to agree.

       “And that’s got nothing to do with your late night endeavors?” Kurusu pried, once again bringing up the incident that forced this acquaintanceship between them. Akechi actively resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Kurusu’s near expectant gaze.

       “I fail to see how that’s your business.” Akechi responded, certain he had made clear when they last met that he wasn’t going to speak of that encounter anymore.

       “Alright,” Kurusu said, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “But let me ask one thing.”

       Kurusu didn’t seem to know when to quit. Akechi mused that was likely why he’d found himself with a record in his first year. Most people immediately conceded to Akechi’s demands, but subjugation, it seemed, was something Kurusu wasn’t keen on. Part of Akechi was impressed by the way Kurusu challenged him. If he were to be honest, he liked it. Perhaps that’s why Akechi so pointedly ignored how the corners of his mouth wanted to curve into a grin as he responded.

       “I hardly believe refusing to answer would prevent you from asking anyway.” Akechi said.

       “How do you feel?” Kurusu asked.

       If that wasn’t a loaded question, Akechi didn’t know what was.

       “About what?” Akechi asked.

       “The situation.” Kurusu said.

       “And I supposed you demand honesty?” Akechi inquired, features falling back into his trademark pleasant guise.

       The huff of amusement that parted Kurusu’s lips was unmistakable.

       “If you can handle that, yeah,” Kurusu said, and Akechi knew enough of people to catch the cadence of Kurusu’s tone. The other man was teasing him. Akechi glared in response and Kurusu’s features fell, less mischievous and more curious. “Really, I’d like to know.”

       Akechi sighed, and felt compelled to turn away from Kurusu, but his gaze remained trained on the other man. He felt the malice fade from his features.

       “There are worse fates.” Akechi said.

       Kurusu seemed to let Akechi’s response stand, nodding once before turning his attention to cleaning what seemed to be an apparatus used to brew coffee. Akechi watched him while he worked for a moment before allowing his gaze to trail to the coffee settled between his hands.

       “What if you fall in love?” Kurusu’s asked, then, the question seemingly unprompted.

       Akechi’s eyes shot up from where they rested, catching sight of Kurusu’s back, who still seemed occupied with cleaning.

       Akechi swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat at Kurusu’s inquiry, suddenly relieved to see that the storms of the barista’s eyes were otherwise occupied. This question was too intimate, far beyond the boundaries of civility and even further beyond the realms of what constituted an _understanding_ between two people.

       Nonetheless, Akechi forced a smile and a soft laugh to his lips and spoke a mirthless sort of truth that didn’t match the script glued to the back of his eyelids.

       “I couldn’t see myself engaged in that sort of relationship with anyone,” Akechi said.

       “Why do you say that?” Kurusu responded, turning to face Akechi once more.

       A plethora of truths Akechi believed of himself made themselves known. His musings ranged from being unworthy of such a love, believing himself incapable of reciprocating because of his blood — lending his thoughts to linger on the wrongs he’s committed in his pursuit to ruin Shido. 

       He was left with what seemed a universal truth. Surely, a monster could not breed something less monstrous than itself.

       “I’ve not the time,” Akechi said, instead. A smile, however forced, pulled at his features as he spoke. “Nor the energy.”

       Kurusu grinned, shrugging his shoulders in response. 

       “You’re lounging around a coffee shop in Yongen-Jaya,” The barista noted.

       “Are you suggesting I _get a life_?” Akechi asked, the corner of his mouth curving his lips into something far more genuine than its predecessor. 

       It seemed strange, to be receiving this sort of advice from a man who was balancing two jobs, high school, a social life and preparation for entrance exams.

       “I’m sure you’ve got far better things to do.” Kurusu said, “Right, Detective?”

       “ I could be studying or working…” Akechi said, eyes trailing to the unfinished cup of coffee before him. He made to stand up, pushing the cup forward, “In fact, I should go, and do so.”

       “Or —,” Kurusu quickly interjected, “you could stay.” The eyes behind his glasses glanced toward the unoccupied booth nearest the door of Leblanc. “Commandeer the both in the corner and when you want a break, come back to the counter.”

       “I have an apartment,” Akechi explained, placing the yen required on the table, seizing his briefcase from the empty chair to his left.

       “Yeah, but if you wanted to go back,” Kurusu noted, “you wouldn’t have stuck around after Makoto left.”

       Akechi paused, eyes narrowed at the barista. He chanced a glance to the door before looking back to Kurusu. He really shouldn’t linger, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t accomplish the same amount of work here as he did at home. Perhaps the extra stimulation would allow him to exhaust his faculties so that by the time he did go home, he might be able to sleep.

       It was a hypothesis worthy of testing.

       “Is that another hunch of yours, Kurusu?” Akechi asked.

       “Call it a wild guess.” Kurusu replied.

       “I could not possibly impose.” Akechi said, shaking his head.

       “You’re not imposing.” Kurusu insisted. He gestured to the rest of the cafe for emphasis and said, “It doesn’t exactly get busy here.”

       “Nonetheless —.” Akechi said, only to be interrupted.

       “Akechi, it’s fine.” Kurusu assured him. “Stay. — I’ll let you know if you’re bothering me.”

       Akechi sighed, then allowed a smile to pull at his features.

       “Given how long you’ve lingered before,” The detective mentioned, a vague reference to their prior encounters, “I find it difficult to conjure anything that could bother you.”

       He garnered a soft smile from the barista at this statement, less mischievous, though the cadence of Kurusu’s voice was indicative of the contrary.

       “The _great detective_ uncovers the truth,” Kurusu said.

       Akechi found himself nearly amused by the remark, glad to have turned from Kurusu at this point, making his way to the booth nearest the door of the cafe. The barista couldn’t possibly see the smile pulling at his features in his current state. Then, Akechi sat, returning his attention to Kurusu, shaking his head.

       “How does Mishima put up with you?” Akechi asked, the question rhetorical.

       He was unsurprised when Akira responds anyway.

       “I’m stunningly attractive.” The barista said, not missing a beat.

       “I feel as if plain is a more accurate description.” Akechi followed, just as swiftly.

       “Well, not all of us can achieve idol status.” Kurusu countered, the smile on his face proving he wasn’t offended by the remark.

       “A detective prodigy reduced to a teen idol,” Akechi said, holding his hand to his chest in mock offense, “Kurusu, have I wounded you so?”

       Kurusu was quiet, a grin still pulling at his lips, gaze still trained on Akechi.

       “I don’t mean to offend,” Akechi amended his previous statement, unsure if he had, in fact, offended the other man.

       “No — it’s fine,” Kurusu said, correcting him. “You’re just giving as good as you get. It — it seems genuine. I like it.”

       Akechi arched a brow at Kurusu’s commentary, but doesn’t deny the validity of his statement. Simply because Kurusu seemingly forced him to abandon the scripts he penned for near all interactions didn’t mean he would stop trying to predict what the young man would say to him next.

       He would allow Kurusu to be right, just this once.

       “Is that your clever way of suggesting again that I haven’t been honest a day in my life?” Akechi asked.

       “I should know I can’t get one past you, Detective.”

       If Akechi returned to Leblanc more often than not after this interaction, no one of consequence had to know the real reason why. That, he would leave to the musings of Kurusu, who sometimes remained behind the counter and at other times, lingered at the booth Akechi worked at. On more than one occasion, Kurusu convinced Akechi to ask Mishima to join them. 

       Akechi was hesitant at first, but after the first occasion, found himself almost content to listen to the two men speak as he worked. At times, he would even offer his own musings. Those times were fewer than he would like, but the sight of Mishima across from him ( he would accept no other explanation ) made a not unwelcome sentiment work at the knots in his chest, anyway.

       Akechi would just have to ignore the very pointed smiles Mishima and Kurusu offered one another until he found out what exactly he wanted to do about the aforementioned sentiment.

       Until then, he would accepting feeling far less alone in their company than without.

       This trend continued for a few weeks, until Akechi received an unplanned call from Niijima while lingering at the establishment. Kurusu nodded from his place behind the counter, a nonverbal cue that Akechi should answer the call.

       The tone of the voice on the other side of the line made the detective’s blood run cold.

       “Akechi, I need your help.”


	13. lies bleed from his mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a distressed phone call with Niijima, Akechi calls her to Leblanc. There were a number of oversights in calling her there, but given her relationship with Kurusu and the timing of her call for his aid, Akechi was left with few options to ensure that she remain out of harms way (and more importantly, out of his way) as he made contact with Kaneshiro’s men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another month late update. I'm really on top of my game, dudes, if you can't tell. Sorry for the wait. Things should definitely be speeding up soon if all goes as planned, so here's to more timely updates. (Hopefully!) As always, feel free to hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments with your thoughts!

       Niijima, for what it was worth, at first glance, did not appear visibly distressed when she entered Leblanc. Akechi counted this as a favorable outcome, considering what little information she relayed during their phone call. Kurusu immediately allowed her in, before exiting the building briefly, if only to turn the sign on the door to closed. The barista locked the door behind him when he returned inside.

       Despite the precautionary measures that Kurusu seemed to take without prompting, Akechi was hesitant to begin discussing Niijima’s predicament. There were a number of oversights in calling Niijima here, but given her relationship with Kurusu and the timing of her call for his aid, Akechi was left with few options to ensure that she remain out of harms way (and more importantly, out of his way) as he made contact with Kaneshiro’s men.

       When Akechi was to confront Kaneshiro’s men, he anticipated that they would likely reference the agreement his father held with their superior. If Niijima were to learn of this, Shido would certainly silence her and while Akechi was more willing to risk Niijima than Mishima, if he could avoid additional complications (bloodshed being the most prominent of said complications) he would.

       Explaining to Sae Niijima, a superior and close acquaintance,that he had gotten her younger sister involved in a case that led to her death was a conversation Akechi wasn’t necessarily keen on having. 

       For a moment, Akechi began to second guess himself. Certainly, his relationship with Sae would suffer if any harm were to come to Makoto, but Yuuki Mishima outweighed both of their importance, did he not? He had to. Akechi could not be convinced he was too quick to judge one’s worth against another. He should know how people’s value were obtained. Akechi had long been too determined to become too important for Shido to dispose of.

       “Let’s go upstairs —,” Kurusu said, then. “If you were followed to Leblanc,” He addressed Niijima, “despite no one seeing you come in, it’s safer to be out of sight.” He walked towards the staircase, glancing over his shoulder at Akechi and Niijima before nodding his head.

       Even without knowing the truth of what was at stake regarding Niijima and Kaneshiro, Akechi was nearly impressed with how calm and confident Kurusu seemed, and of how willing the other man was to insert himself in a potentially dangerous situation.

       As Akechi followed Kurusu and Niijima upstairs, he briefly recalled Kurusu mentioning how he had to keep his head down in his first year at Shujin, how he had to keep his mouth shut. He also recalled how the barista didn’t regret protecting that woman, despite getting arrested under false pretenses. 

       Akechi wondered what Kurusu’s path would look like if things had been different for him, if the man who got him arrested was incarcerated instead. 

       Would Kurusu have become the embodiment of justice that Akechi could never be?

       Certainly, the other man possessed a selflessness that Akechi couldn’t fathom. Kurusu might be bitter, but he was not broken. No, the chip on Kurusu’s shoulder wasn’t so much a burden as a badge of honor. 

       If only Akechi had been so well adjusted. If only Akechi hadn’t been the son of Shido.

       Akechi rid himself of those musings as he reached the top of the staircase, opting to examine his surroundings instead.

       “How unassuming,” Akechi said as he examined the space.

       Admittedly, he was surprised by the state of the attic. The room was spacious and despite looking as if no one had occupied the space for quite a while now, it was impossible to miss that this once served as a bedroom of sorts for someone. There was a futon with sheets and a duvet in the far righthand corner of the room, a desk in the left, an old television, and a game system. Near the excuse for a bed was set of shelves, currently uninhabited, and upon the ceiling were stars.

       Kurusu walked around the the place as if he owned it, and Akechi mused that perhaps that was once the case. Kurusu did attend Shujin for a year. It could be that this was where he stayed. Perhaps the manager who Akechi had learned to call ‘Boss’ had taken pity on Kurusu or something of the sort. Not many would hire a man with a record. Assuming Sakura and Kurusu knew each other beyond the realm of employer and employee made sense.

       Lost in his thoughts, Akechi only briefly acknowledged that Kurusu set up a table and chairs near the center of the room.

       Niijima took a seat at the table. She exhaled, and though Akechi wouldn’t normally note the act of breathing, the action seemed incredibly deliberate. It was almost voluntary, rather than natural. Akechi wondered how long Niijima had been forced to focus on her breathing, how shaken up she really was by her interaction with Kaneshiro’s men. 

       His attention is drawn from Niijima, though, at the sound of scratching. By the time Akechi located the source of the sound, Kurusu was already by the window and opening it to allow the cat Akechi had been proud of outmaneuvering in.

       The cat immediately approached Niijima, who smiled for first time since entering Leblanc.

       Akechi cleared his throat, looking towards Kurusu and then Niijima. While Akechi refrained from taking a seat, Kurusu seemed to follow Niijima’s lead, sitting down at her side.

       “Niijima,” Akechi said, “tell me what’s happened.”

       “This just feels unreal, Akechi,” Niijima replied solemnly, clearly hesitant.

       Akechi turned away from her, jaw clenched. Of course Niijima would need counseling. He was preparing himself to engage in the role of a true confidant when Kurusu spoke up.

       “It’s okay, Makoto. You’re safe here,” Kurusu said.

       Niijima looked towards Kurusu for a moment and let a small smile pull at her lips, before retuning her attention to the cat in her lap. Akechi, though surprised at Kurusu’s intervention, didn’t question it. Instead, he followed Kurusu’s commentary with a reassurance of his own.

       “And you’ll be safe elsewhere when Kaneshiro is behind bars,” Akechi explained, hiding his frustration with Niijima’s resistance behind a plastic smile, it’s edges mimicking both sympathy and reassurance even as they dug into his features. He knew he could resolve the situation with a few carefully calculated sentences, if only she would talk. All this being said, Akechi wouldn’t be too terribly surprised if his attempts at empathy appeared more trite than sincere. “I understand that it must be hard to talk about, but I’m afraid I’ll need a little more to go on, Niijima.”

       “I know,” Niijima said, “I’m sorry, Akechi. I really feel like I let you down.”

       “You could only let me down by not telling me what I need to know,” Akechi replied, “Your safety is my priority.”

       He wondered if Kurusu would call him out on lying through his teeth. Surprisingly, the barista did the opposite.

       “That’s _Akechi_ for he’s glad you feel like you can come to him.” Kurusu added, as if he had the understanding of Akechi that stretched beyond the years the detective shared with Niijima.

       While Akechi resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Kurusu’s description, a huff of amusement seemed to escape Niijima at that. 

       He found himself agreeing, if only to accelerate the process.

       “I will not stand for my friends being threatened,” Akechi declared, “Between the two of us,” He explained, gesturing between himself and Niijima, “Kaneshiro doesn’t stand a chance.”

       “He — uh.” Niijima began.

       “Take your time, Makoto.” Kurusu said softly. He was irritatingly good at being compassionate. It truly was no wonder why Mishima favored Kurusu over Akechi. The detective did his best not to glare at Kurusu as these thoughts crossed his mind. 

       He needed to focus, to prepare himself for the inevitable confrontation with Kaneshiro himself and Kaneshiro’s men. Kurusu was distracting, so much so that he hardly realized Niijima began speaking.

       “— Kaneshiro’s men,” Niijima said, “They caught me. They recognized me.” Akechi couldn’t help but notice the note of resentment in her tone when she spoke again, “— Sae Niijima’s little sister.” She looked to Akechi. “I guess they’ve been keeping an eye on her.”

       Sae Niijima was Akechi’s second closest friend and while he truly didn’t believe that Kaneshiro’s men would risk going after a public prosecutor, it was still troublesome to learn that they had been keeping such close tabs on her. He again considered that his haste in taking the target off of Mishima had been a mistake. Sae was the only one he could trust when it was finally time to take down Shido. It would launch her career beyond the heights she would be able to achieve in such a male dominated industry.It was certainly something she deserved, controlling the men who would claim positions they were unworthy of. And, of course, Shido would suffer. Sae might even have mercy on Akechi in the role he played at Shido’s side, though part of Akechi hoped she would be as ruthless as he believes she’s capable of being. 

       Someone should punish him for the blood on his hands.

       Why not someone he could trust?

       “Did they threaten her?” Akechi asked.

       “They gave me an ultimatum, Akechi,” Niijima explained “— They want you. They know that we’re friends. If I deliver you, then they’ll leave Sae alone.”

       “You know they will not stop there,” Akechi said, shaking his head.

       Niijima nodded, eyes dropping from Akechi to the floor. She breathed again, in that carefully calculated way, before meeting Akechi’s gaze once more, with fire in her eyes.

       “But either way, I knew I had to call you.”

       “Did you bargain?” He responded. 

       “It was you or a contract, Akechi. I’d — _work_ — for them and Sae wouldn’t have to worry about incurring the wrath of Kaneshiro.”

       “You offered me up, instead.” Akechi assumed, a small smile pulling at his lips.

       “I had no choice,” Niijima responded, that determined look still in her eyes. Her drive to protect what she cared about rivaled Akechi’s. He could respect it. He said as much.

       “You did, and you chose correctly,” Akechi said, “I assume these men wish to make a deal, get the next prime minister’s son in their back pocket…” He trailed off. “— I will approach them. I presume they gave you a time and a place.”

       “Yes, they did.” She pulled out a small sheet of paper enclosed within a plastic bag. After examining its contents, Akechi discovered an address and a time. The information seemed to be written in black permanent marker, along with the instructions to come alone. with an address and location. He took it with his glove hands and notes that Niijima’s wearing some as well. It was obvious that she had anticipated that perhaps they would be able to collect prints from item. He placed the item in his jacket pocket and made a note to stow the item in his briefcase at his earliest convenience. 

       “I’ll take this and you, will stay here.” Akechi commanded. “Kurusu, you’ll need to lock me out and neither one of you should leave until you receive word from me. — Understood?” Then, he turned and walked down the stairs, without awaiting a response from either party.

       He heard footsteps behind him as he made his descent. He stopped to collect his briefcase, sliding the plastic bag into its interior. Turning to his side, he saw Kurusu.

       “Can I trust you to look after Niijima?” Akechi said.

       “I’m coming with you.” Kurusu said at the same time, causing Akechi to truly face the other man, rather than addressing him from his peripheral.

       While part of the detective is unsurprised by the claim, he could not hide the confusion in his features. Kurusu’s declaration was reckless, and the most absurd thing Akechi has ever heard. This man seemed more than content to continuously put himself in harm’s way for the sake of his friends, and was suggesting that he join Akechi in confronting Kaneshiro’s men for the sake of Niijima. Kurusu was foolish. He would do more good to stay with her in case things were to go wrong, not follow a detective into the belly of a beast.

       “You expect me to endanger a civilian, all so that you may play the knight in shining armor for Niijima?”

       “You need someone to watch your back.”

       _Oh._

       Akechi was surprised at that response. He supposed it would be impossible to claim that Kurusu and he were perfect strangers anymore. This was a troublesome development. It seemed that after one too many visits to Leblanc, all because of an oath made to Mishima, Kurusu began to considered Akechi as a friend.

       “I —,” Akechi said, a little shaken from the realization, “I can handle myself.”

       The detective sighed, refusing to meet Kurusu’s gaze. The grip on his briefcase tightened as he considered the most effective course of action. 

       If Akechi were to be honest, his initial protest of Kurusu getting himself involved was a farce. It mattered not if Kurusu was a civilian. In fact, he shouldn’t be bothered at all by the idea that Kurusu could accompany him. The chances of Kurusu’s involvement solving itself would improve if that were the case. But he couldn’t allow that to happen, because as much as he might envy Kurusu, he could not endanger Mishima’s best friend. Also, there existed the details Kurusu knew of Akechi’s less than savory habits that the barista kept to himself.

       If Kurusu insisted upon claiming Akechi as a friend of sorts, Akechi would need to keep him from learning anything else about him. Kurusu discovering his involvement with Kaneshiro’s men would only make things more difficult. He had made an oath to keep everyone, excluding those necessary at arms length, to only use them when circumstances arose and to thrust them behind the walls he so carefully constructed once he was through.

       Akechi had broken it — all because he’d fallen victim to a very human emotion: envy. And now, these were the consequences.

       Kurusu cared. The man who knew too much, seemed to care.

       A man who believed his life was ruined and would choose to ruin it all over again to save someone from becoming a victim, care.

       This could only end poorly.

       “I held my own against those gang members with Mishima,” Kurusu said, after a long moment.

       Akechi scoffed, and sharpened his tone. If Kurusu insisted on claiming an intimacy with Akechi, he would have to understand and accept the boundaries the detective place between himself and everyone around him.

       This was not up for debate.

       “The difference is that these men know what they’re doing.” Akechi replied.

       “You can’t go alone.” Kurusu countered.

       It seemed venom wouldn’t work towards the barista. He would have to employ a different tactic. Akechi dropped his gaze to the ground, allowed another sigh to pass through his lips and looked back Kurusu with an expression that he could only hope mirrored melancholy.

       “I appreciate your concern, Kurusu,” Akechi said, “I truly do, but there is no need to involve anyone else. This — as dangerous as it may be, is my job. I could not, in good conscience, allow you to endanger yourself on my behalf.”

       The look in his eyes told Akechi that Kurusu wasn’t convinced, but the barista seemed open to compromise.

       “Will you at least call for backup?” Kurusu asked. 

       “The note said to come alone,” Akechi responded. “But fear not, I may appear young but I have twice the experience any regular officer has in dealing with these types of men.” Akechi paused and met Kurusu’s gaze. He conjured as much mock sincerity as he believed he was capable of and said, “I swear to you that I will be careful.” Akechi ignored how he could feel the words like knives in his mouth, the lies bleeding out of his mouth. “But I have to go. Niijima needs me to do this.”

       Akechi turned and began to walk to the door, not allowing Kurusu time to respond. Yet, as his hand reached the doorknob, Kurusu spoke.

       “Wait,” Kurusu said.

       “What?” Akechi asked, turning once more to the other man.

       “That man — the one running for Prime Minister. Is he really your father?”

       The question seemed unprompted, but at the same time, Akechi understood what Kurusu was doing here. He was testing Akechi, as recompense for being forced to back down. He could see something interesting in the barista’s eyes as well, something conflicting, in how he was looking past Akechi rather than at him as he awaited a response. Akechi refused to acknowledge how he seemed to physically feel something shift in Kurusu’s perception of him the longer he remained silent. 

       In that moment, though, Akechi couldn’t force the words to his mouth. In fact, everything in his system screamed at him to not claim Shido as his father. Despite the public’s perception of Shido and Akechi as nothing less than perfect, it seemed wrong to admit the truth to the storms behind the lenses protecting Kurusu’s eyes.

       Kurusu obviously knew who Akechi’s father was by now, especially if he was having trouble not hearing Akechi’s name anymore. He had to know.

       He didn’t know why Kurusu chose now to say something, though. When tensions were high and Akechi had somewhere he needed to be, Kurusu chose to mention his lineage. He couldn’t possibly understand why, so he ignored the question and stated the obvious instead.

       “I have to go,” Akechi said, and walked out the door.

       After all, he had a job to do. Niijima’s interference had the desired effect. Kaneshiro would know that Akechi and Shido had been left with no choice.


	14. die on your feet or live on your knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands finally being forced by the threats of Kaneshiro's men against the Niijima sisters, Akechi confronts the source of the danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter but if I keep looking at it, I'm likely to drive myself insane. Feedback would be really appreciated when it comes to this chapter because oh, boy, am I feeling really uncertain about posting it! Hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments. Good, bad, or ugly, I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> [ Note: I'm thinking of compiling quite a few chapters of this fic for my own sake. You know, putting chapters together for a more seamless story. I almost might remove a few elements that seemed a little forced. Generally, everything would be pretty much the same, thought. It's just a thought, but let me know if you guys think changing the structure of this piece will allow for a more enjoyable reading experience. ]

       Before Akechi could truly approach Kaneshiro’s men, he had to take all necessary precautions, beginning with alerting Shido to his status and ending with arming himself in the case of a less than favorable outcome. He deposited his briefcase and the evidence gathered from Niijima at his apartment, and pulled off his blazer, if only to don a shoulder holster. Gun secured and hidden from prying eyes by his coat, he walked into the washroom of his apartment.

       He exhaled, slowly, but surely, as he looked as his reflection. The darkness beneath his eyes was still veiled by a layer of concealer, eyedrops soothed the irritation that accompanied sleep deprivation, his collar was straight and the fabric of his blazer was beyond impeccable. If one looked at Akechi, there was no discernible way by appearance alone to discover he was both armed and dangerous. 

       It was terribly fitting how his appearance now mirrored his status.

       Akechi was out the door not a moment later. Ever since Shido revealed his knowledge of Akechi’s food blog, the detective always felt eyes on him. Now, the sensation was even stronger as he made his way to the location Kaneshiro’s men had hastily scribbled on the note Niijima had presented him with. As Akechi stood before the address listed, he was admittedly disappointed to learn that the men had chosen to follow the tropes of an abandoned building of sorts for this meeting. Given their near invulnerability in the eyes of the police and the money they made from their less than savory pursuits, he expected something more extravagant.

       The Kaneshiro he met was the type to hide in plain sight. These men, it seemed, were of another breed. He supposed he had been right to suggest that Shido sever his ties to the mob boss, if his men were acting outside of his orders. Nonetheless, these circumstances certainly made the call for Akechi’s attention all the more interesting. He supposed there was nothing more to do than to enter the premises.

       A singular chair sat in the center of the dimly lit room that Akechi briefly acknowledged was once a lobby or foyer of sorts. Considering how empty the space was, a quick survey of the room revealed to the detective that this was a temporary headquarters of sorts, and that it had been set up strictly for this meeting. He supposed he should feel flattered, at how these men went to the effort to stage something for him. 

       Akechi wasn’t surprised to see a man sitting in the aforementioned chair. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at how performative the gesture was. What did surprise Akechi, though, was that the man was alone. He was alone, in an abandoned building, after having forcefully called upon a man with ties to the law. This meant one of two things: the man was not as alone as he appeared or he was underestimating Goro Akechi. While the latter was likely, if Akechi were to consider the circumstances, the former seemed more appropriate, especially since Niijima was only threatened. This man, or rather, these men — weren’t keen on the idea of spilling blood — yet.

       The man smiled upon Akechi’s entrance, and the grin he wore was predatory. Smug and sharp, the flash of his teeth reminded Akechi of Shido and of all the men and women who served his father. The man wore the expression of one who believed themselves on the cusp of gaining some power, as if all the odds were in their favor. If Akechi could have, he would have walked away then and there, but he had a role to play. It was, unfortunately, a role that required giving this man exactly what he wanted. 

       Was compliance not key when faced with a situation that caused discomfort? 

       The detective forced a grin to his features as the man’s phone dinged. The man looked at his device, holding a finger up as if to signal to Akechi that he needed a moment, and if that was not the most infuriating thing Akechi experienced, he didn’t know what was. All the same, though, a polite smile pulled at the detective’s lips.

       “Akechi-kun. I’m glad you could make it,” The man said, pocketing his phone as he finally addressed the detective’s presence.

       “With what threats you presented Niijima with,” Akechi began, tone as pleasant as ever as he spoke, “I thought it unwise to refuse your invitation.” He allowed a soft laugh to pass through his lips, however manufactured. It was a card he played before, speaking with a confidence despite the anxiety coursing through his veins. The laugh, itself, was equally important in the ruse of ensuring that the man believed Akechi to be anything but uncertain. Conviction was something Akechi was familiar with, and communicating with men who could smell fear drilled the idea of bravado into his bones. He stood before this man for a reason, and it was imperative they both present themselves as powerful, despite how Akechi was clearly at a disadvantage, considering the threats lingering over Niijima’s head. “But please, might I ask your name?” Akechi asked, then, “Since you seem to already know mine.”

       “Of course, where are my manners?” The man said, still grinning, “I apologize, Akechi-kun.”

       Akechi left his own smile tacked in place, despite his growing irritation with how this man seemed to insist on calling him “Akechi-kun.” Akechi was no subordinate, age be damned. He held more power and influence in one hand than this man did in his entire form. Akechi was more than a veteran when it came to confronting criminals and could overpower this man at a moment’s notice. Yet, right now, Akechi was in need of information and he intended to gather it. So, again, he would remain compliant.

       “Oh, is that so?” Akechi responded, tone innocuous, even if the sharp smirk on his lips said otherwise. 

       “The name’s Katsuo Nakano,” The man said. Then, Akechi heard the sound of a door opening behind him. Despite the instinct to turn to see what was on his back, Akechi kept his attention focused solely on the man before him. The man looked past him, something dangerous alighting in his gaze, as his grin grew ever wider. Akechi counted his breaths, and only made way to address what caught Nakano’s attention when prompted. “And might I introduce you to Harada and Uchida? I was gonna wait a bit before pulling this card, but it looks like this _one_ is giving my guys a run for their money.”

       When, Akechi turned to see what was behind him and who Nakano was referring to, he was met with the sight of none other than Akira Kurusu. Akechi’s eyes widened, if only for a moment, before he cooled his features. Each man, Harada and Uchida respectively, held Kurusu in place, despite the struggle Kurusu was putting up against their grasp. 

       Every time Akechi held his tongue when Shido laid hands on him, every occasion he didn’t fight back against the abuse, and every exploit where he continued to act out Shido’s will— had trained him for this moment.

       It took all of Akechi’s composure not to immediately gun those men down.

       He didn’t have time to contemplate the implications of the force of the compulsion that hit him, for it already seemed Akechi was quiet for a moment too long. 

       One of the men, Harada, he believed, took the opportunity to tease the detective.

       “Looks like you’ve got an admirer, Akechi-kun,” Harada said, one hand on Kurusu’s arm, the other in Kurusu’s hair, pulling his head back so Akechi could see his face, “I guess a fan of yours saw you come creeping around Shibuya and decided to follow you.”

       “What a drag, right?” Nakano said, suddenly beside Akechi, “Being in the spotlight…”

       Akechi barely heard the words Nakano spoke, eyes glued to the scene before him. The left side of Kurusu’s face injured, tinted red and slightly swollen.

       They hit him.

       “He’s a fighter —,” Uchida said, drawing the detective’s attention from Kurusu’s features. “I’ll give him that much. I’m going to have a hell of a shiner in the morning.” Only then did Akechi notice how Uchida’s right eye was nearly shut. He didn’t have time to contemplate the state of Kurusu’s hands after landing a blow like that, not when Uchida kept speaking, “Don’t worry, though. I returned the favor. This _child_ is lucky I decided not to dislocate his jaw.” Akechi didn’t miss how the way Uchida said ‘child’ seemed to get a rise out of Kurusu, who again struggled against the grasp of his captors.

       Part of Akechi was furious. The other part was grateful, though, that Kurusu was at the very least, keeping his mouth shut. Akechi surveyed the extent of Kurusu’s injuries as nonchalantly as possible. His face would bruise and the way he tried to keep his right hand still despite being manhandled didn’t seem to bode well, but he would recover. Akechi was unsurprised to see a glare crossing Kurusu’s features as he looked upon the man standing to Akechi’s side, though the look softened ever so slightly when he met Akechi’s eyes, before his gaze hardened once more. The storm of Kurusu’s eyes was unreadable and Akechi scoffed at the scene, especially when Kurusu decided to spit blood on the shoes of Uchida.

       Uchida was reaching back a hand to strike Kurusu again, cursing under his breath when Akechi spoke, stalling him.

       The first thing to cross his mind was to claim Kurusu — to shift the balance of power once more. He would have to intimidate these men in some manner. Declaring providence over the life and body of a man would have to serve this purpose.

       After all, he couldn’t have Mishima’s best friend getting himself killed.

       If anyone had the privilege of ending Kurusu, it would have to be Akechi.

       Especially because Akechi knew exactly how to protect Kurusu from further harm, spare both of their lives, and achieve his own goals. It would just be at the expense of his own reputation and it also meant he would have to take Kurusu home with him tonight. — That is, if his plan worked.

       “How unfortunate it is that you had to go and damage my property?” Akechi said, going completely off the script he prepared for this encounter. The curious look that crossed Uchida’s face showed his gamble had paid off. “Granted, my interaction with your superior was brief, but Nakano seemed to show, at least, some capacity for respect.”

       No one spoke for a long moment. Then, Nakano let out a low whistle, walking towards where Harada and Uchida held Kurusu captive. He circled the three, and then stood to Harada’s side, addressing Akechi.

       “Gotta admit — didn’t see that one coming,” Nakano said.

       “If you would please have your men unhand him, Nakano,” He said, shooting his most dangerous glare at the man, “we could return to discussing the business at hand.”

       “C’mon, boss. We’ve got something of his,” Uchida said, “This is even better than a fan.”

       “Who would have thought the detective prince was in the closet?” Harada added.

       Their deliberation was unnerving. Akechi knew he would have to go even further out on a limb, before their threats accelerated from injuring Kurusu to killing him outright. He might have had the respect of Kaneshiro’s men once upon a time, but these were newer recruits. Certainly, they heard tale of a man who shot dead one of their numbers for laying a hand on him, but they knew nothing of what Akechi was capable of doing for someone else. The odds were not in Akechi’s favor. Trying to maintain his image, regain control, achieve his goal, and protect Kurusu was going to take all he had. 

       Again, he didn’t have time to question the compulsion to protect Kurusu. He knew well enough that if it came down to it, he would sacrifice anything and everyone to achieve his goal. It was in his blood to do so, yet the image of something happening to Kurusu, right in front of him, while he was helpless to stop it, lit a fire in Akechi.

       He knew he would have to gamble with Kurusu’s life. And though he might have been doubting his choices before coming here, he didn’t now. Akechi had to be right. There was no opportunity for a miscalculation, no margin for error.

       “Well, kill him if you must,” Akechi said. The eyes of all the men in the room were on him and, though Nakano seemed all to amused by this turn of events, he said nothing. He only continued to watch with a smirk pulling at his features. Akechi shrugged his shoulders and exhaled, sighing in some manner that he hoped mimicked exasperation, “But certainly you men understand how troublesome it is to find good toys.”

       Harada and Uchida looked appalled. Nakano looked pleased and Akechi truly couldn’t find the courage to really examine how Kurusu was reacting to the words spilling from his mouth. If they made it out of this alive, he was certainly going to kill Kurusu himself, if only as recompense for ‘outing’ his persona in such a fashion.

       “Lemme guess, the fiancé just isn’t giving it up?” Nakano said, patting Harada on the shoulder, a soft laugh escaping him.

       Akechi smirked and met Nakano’s gaze with all the mischief he could manage in his tone, “I had a feeling you would sympathize,” The detective said, even as he tasted bile in the back of his throat at what he would have to say next. “Is not a woman’s worth before marriage her chastity?”

       He made a mental note to ask Niijima to punch him for saying such a thing, even if it was only in an effort to protect Kurusu’s and his life.

       “But this one?” Uchida asked.

       A believable response thrust itself to the forefront of Akechi’s consciousness.

       “It’s too easy when everyone bows at my feet,” He said, “Certainly, it’s nice when I get exactly what I want, but it grows boring after a while.” Akechi forced himself to remember the awful truth of the prostitution rings that ran in Tokyo’s underground, and how often sex was akin to power. “Plus, he has yet to break when I’m rough with him,” He gestured to Kurusu then, though he still didn’t gage the other man’s expression, “If anything, he gets off on it.”

       “And he followed you here?” Harada asked.

       “The Niijima girl did interrupt us at an — inopportune time,” Akechi said, half truths spilling from his lips with a cadence that shifted the context ever so slightly, “And I have been known to walk out on him before.”

       If walking out on Kurusu asking a question of his heritage counted, of course.

       “Seems like you really are your father’s son,” Nakano said. “Fine, let’s talk business,” He tapped Harada once on the shoulder before walking forward, blocking Kurusu from Akechi’s view. “Shall I have my men escort him from the premises?”

       “Actually,” Akechi said, stepping forward to meet Nakano, a challenge in his gaze, “I believe it would bode well for him to learn exactly what I’m capable of.”

       “Understood,” Nakano said, stepping aside and raising his arms in mock surrender. “Alright, boys. Down.”

       Akechi chose to ignore how Kurusu fell to his knees after being released from the grasp of Uchida and Harada. As the Nakano’s men walked away, Akechi finally allowed himself to look at Kurusu’s face, to gage his response to the detective’s attempt to save his life. Akechi didn’t kneel, but looked down at Kurusu. Nakano was still watching and Akechi had to sell the ruse, that he was in a position of power over Kurusu, so placing himself at the same level of something as convenient as he made Kurusu out to be was out of the question. Slowly, Kurusu seemed to catch his breath. The rise and fall of his shoulders in time with his chest indicated as much. He looked up to Akechi then, and something between a laugh and a sob escaped him.

       “Babe — I thought you were the only one allowed to hurt me.” Kurusu said, so quiet that Akechi knew the words were meant for him and only him. It was an indicator that proved Kurusu was alright, and Akechi has to actively resist the urge to breathe a sigh of relief.

       Kurusu forced a smile to his features, wincing at the action. Akechi swore the sight of red staining Kurusu’s teeth would forever haunt him. 

       Akechi has forced the hands of men and women before. Akechi has killed before, and he has been the reason others have died. Akechi was ruthless. Akechi had the capacity to be merciless. Akechi would sacrifice everything to lead his father to ruin.

       Yet, Akechi was the same man who washed his skin raw at the death of man whose only desire had been to hurt him.

       Akechi had stepped in to save Mishima and Niijima from Kamoshida because it was the right thing to do.

       Akechi had put Okumura’s ex-fiancé behind bars because he hadn’t liked the way she hid her suffering behind sad smiles.

       So this moment, right now —.

       It was all Akechi could do not to fall to his knees before Kurusu.

       “You absolute fool,” Akechi said, callous because he had to — angry because he was. “You are simply begging to be punished, aren’t you?”

       “Save it for the bedroom, Akechi-kun,” Nakano said. Akechi immediately turned his back to Kurusu. “So, where were we?”

       Akechi, despite the pounding of his heart against the cage of his ribs, the burning of his lungs for something beside the deliberate but shallow breaths he allowed them, called the script he prepared for this meeting back to his mind.

       He was always too good at playing the roles assigned to him.

       “Well, I am certainly not under the impression that you are to escort me to Kaneshiro. If that were the case, I would say I am quite surprised to find that if he was so inspired to renegotiate the terms of his contract, that he would go to such extreme measures to to call upon me.” Akechi smirked, tone going lofty, as if he were musing aloud. He brought a hand to his chin in mock contemplation. “Certainly, there are much less messy ways to make contact.”

       “Kaneshiro has gone soft, Akechi,” Nakano said, and Akechi didn’t have to be a detective to know that he was unamused, “We — would like to reestablish rule of Shibuya with you on our side.”

       “Oh,” Akechi said, then, outright laughing at the man, “And you would threaten a friend of mine, for what? Sport.” Akechi stepped forward, looking down on a man almost over ten years his senior in age but at least 10 centimeters his junior in height. “Certainly, you should know that we are not ones to be trifled with.”

       “That business with Niijima was just to get your attention, Akechi-kun.” Nakano said, taking a step back. A stifled laugh escaped his throat. He choked on the sound, “I — We’re not stupid enough to go after a prosecutor or her younger sister. But she doesn’t know that.”

       Akechi allowed himself a huff of amusement, approaching Nakano again. He looked at the man, from head to toe, appraising him, before nodding.

       “If you supply me with a list of commands and form of contact, I’ll approach my supervisor,” Akechi said.

       “Then,” Nakano said, pulling an envelope from his blazer and handing it to Akechi. “we’ll discuss terms?”

       “Certainly.” Akechi said, opening his jacket to pocket the letter, plainly revealing the fact that he was armed during the entirety of the confrontation, “We’ll need a new leader of the underground after all. One that can control his men and one that can stay in line.”

       He turned his back on Nakano then, and approached Kurusu, who had bowed his head and remained on his knees.

       “On your feet,” Akechi said, “We’re leaving.”

       Akechi led the way out of the building and back onto the crowded streets of Shibuya, Kurusu trailing behind him. He didn’t say anything and only shushed Kurusu whenever he opened his mouth as if to speak until they reached his apartment.

       Akechi didn’t miss how Kurusu began cradling his hand against his chest as soon as they vacated the building and he certainly didn’t miss how something in his chest constricted whenever he caught sight of Kurusu’s injuries.

       He needed to report to Shido. He needed Kurusu to not have followed him. He needed his thoughts to stop racing and his head to stop pounding.

       Goro Akechi, above all, just needed to catch a break.


	15. they haven't stopped shaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The silence of their journey to his home had allowed Akechi the mercy of adjusting his mask. He drilled its corners into his skull, locking it into place. The Goro Akechi that existed when faced with Nakano and his thugs, the Akechi that Kurusu had just witnessed in action, had disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the aftermath of the confrontation with Nakano and his thugs. Ehh, I'm not super satisfied with this chapter, which is lots of introspection, but I think you guys will understand why this chapter is very important to the trajectory of this fic.
> 
> Hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments with thoughts, questions, and concerns.

       Goro Akechi was not a dangerous man. Inviting Akira Kurusu into his home for the evening — circumstances aside — proved his capacity for kindness, for understanding. If anything, his actions mirrored protective gestures.

       Even if, internally, he found himself more tolerant of this situation than compassionate to their current plight.

       The silence of their journey to his home had allowed Akechi the mercy of adjusting his mask. He drilled its corners into his skull, locking it into place. The Goro Akechi that existed when faced with Nakano and his thugs, the Akechi that Kurusu had just witnessed in action, had disappeared. 

       The detective’s hands weren’t shaking. His heart rate was near resting, and he was smiling.

       And despite the urge to berate Kurusu, Akechi settled for pretending. At least — he tried to. Kurusu always seems to make such a feat problematic, especially when Akechi’s near maroon eyes landed on the barista’s battered features. Then, Akechi’s hands were moving, as were his lips, guiding Kurusu to the small dining area of his apartment. Seeing Kurusu again sitting in one the chairs from that rarely used table was a startling image, but Akechi shook his head and continued towards the kitchen, choosing to ignore the night the visual of Akira sitting in that chair brought to mind.

       Ice packs were retrieved and Akechi dropped them on the table with a whispered command to Kurusu to stay put as he entered his bedroom. The adjacent bathroom had Akechi carefully examining his own appearance, his distorted reflection catching his attention. The detective forced himself to remain unfazed by the fact that the concealer and eye drops from earlier seemed to do very little in soothing the symptoms of his lifestyle. He supposed Kurusu’s presence only exacerbated their existence. Hiding bruises, hiding the red lines staining the whites of his eyes, and hiding his life behind the mask of the supposed “second coming” of the detective prince were all simple things. Hiding the effects of a person, hiding Kurusu, was not.

       Kurusu was a tumor — a symptom of sentimentality, growing larger and more problematic as time passed. If left untreated, it would surely cripple him. But, Kurusu was inoperable — his bonds had proven so much. If Akechi simply had kept Mishima at bay, had turned a blind eye to the devastatingly human desire to be needed, Kurusu wouldn’t be here. Akira Kurusu wouldn’t be a factor in Akechi’s life.

       Kurusu would simply be a faceless man that he ran into at the television studio, a delinquent Niijima tutored once, and a bartender of no consequence.

       And right now, Akechi would have no use for the hands that he had won if only because he found himself somehow capable of turning the dry rot of his life into a suitable enough foundation upon which to forge a being.

       Akechi shook his head at the thought, removed his gloves, gathered the first aid kit he kept stocked, and returned the living area once more.

       Kurusu wasn’t where Akechi left him. Instead, he seemed to be aimlessly wandering about Akechi’s apartment. Akechi found himself lost in his musings as he observed the other man, wondering how acclimatized Kurusu would be to his home, having been there before, circumstances aside. Had he not done a fair share of investigating that night? Had Kurusu chosen to remain by Akechi’s side all those hours with nothing but a cellphone and an unconscious detective to occupy his attention?

       After a moment, Akechi deposited the first aid kit in his hands onto the table. Kurusu seemed to hear the clatter of the plastic container meeting the surface, and turned towards him, some unreadable look in his eyes and a small smile pulling at his features as he returned to where Akechi originally directed him.

       Akechi refused to hesitate in laying hands on Kurusu — despite the fifth he deemed them worthy of depositing. His fingertips were on the edge of Kurusu’s jaw then, and the minor wince escaping his companion at their contact compelled him to loosen his grasp. Akechi directed Kurusu to cant his head up, down, left, and right with taps of his fingertips against the man’s features. Examining the damage provided Akechi with what information he needed, and he decided to task his hand with holding a cold compress against the jaw that Uchida had claimed he hadn’t broken.

       Uchida, however correct in his initial assessment, would rue this day nonetheless. Of course Akechi was already calculating his next move, even as he tended to Kurusu. He traded his own grasp of the compress to Akira’s uninjured hand as he surveyed the damage on the one that met with Uchida’s face. Uchida would have to go, as would Harada. It would be a slip of the tongue to Shido, when he relayed the results of his encounter with Kaneshiro’s men. Nakano would seal their fates. After all, if Nakano truly wished to usurp Kaneshiro, he would need to prove his loyalty to the future prime minister and his son. 

       Akechi could have lingered upon the future, but was quickly drawn from his merciless calculations when he heard a sharp intake of breath escape Kurusu as he tested the mobility of each finger on the barista’s injured hand. Akechi tried not to consider how his mere touch could be transferring his venomous musings into something tangible, something capable of causing Kurusu’s pain.

       It didn’t appear as if anything was broken, but he cradled Kurusu’s hand with care — if a man like him could summon something resembling that sentiment. He imagined hairline fractures beneath the surface of Kurusu’s skin, and wrapped Kurusu’s limb to limit his range of motion. After all, Kurusu’s own instincts to keep it still had proven accurate enough.

       “Akechi —,” Kurusu said, after Akechi finished caring for his wounds.

       Akechi, having realized that they haven’t really spoken since the confrontation with Kaneshiro’s men — or rather — Nakano’s men, hummed in response. Despite what care, and he hesitated to describe it as care, he had showed Kurusu moments ago, Akechi wasn’t interested in what Kurusu might have to say about what had transpired in that abandoned building.

       Didn’t he already know enough of the pristine prince’s dirty secrets?

       Kurusu, though, once again, proved to be the problematic gear Akechi had unwittingly wrenched into his life.

       “Why are you doing this, Akechi?” Kurusu asked, “— Aren’t you angry?”

       Akechi took pause for a moment, a little startled that of all the things Kurusu could ask of him right now, that it was this. Kurusu was asking Akechi why he was helping him, despite knowing that Akechi would be angry at him. It reminded the detective that only a few hours ago, he had realized that Kurusu cared about him. And it seemed, even now, he would not stop. 

       Unless Kurusu accepted the barriers Akechi kept trying to place between them, Kurusu was almost certainly going to get in over his head. After all, the insistence on distance was for Kurusu’s own good. One way or another, Kurusu would have to learn so much. Perhaps, this occurrence could serve as a precautionary tale. He met Kurusu’s gaze with a smile and hardly registered the feigned pleasantness lacquering his tongue as he spoke.

       “Kurusu, please,” He insisted, “Worry not.” Akechi gestured to Kurusu’s face and hand respectively. “You are the injured party here. My status is unimportant.”

       Akechi was not so blind as to disregard the clenching of Kurusu’s uninjured fist, his companion having discarded the cold compress onto the table. The detective also could not ignore the narrowing of his eyes. Kurusu wasn’t buying his act. Akechi knew, deep down, that Kurusu wasn’t going to stop.

       “Akechi, what was that?” Kurusu asked.

       “Nothing of importance,” Akechi assured him, again, despite knowing that Kurusu could see right through him. Could that man never just drop it? Had he no concept of boundaries? “Niijima is safe,” Akechi added, “Is that not all that matters?”

       Kurusu dropped his gaze from Akechi, then, allowing the detective a small reprieve. It was only a moment before he met Akechi’s eyes once more, and something about how quickly the hardness in grey hues shifted to something soft caught Akechi’s breath in this throat.

       “What about you?” Kurusu asked.

       It was almost too much. Every fiber in Akechi’s being demanded release, but such a form of catharsis would only nurture what Akechi was trying to starve — this fascination, this drive Kurusu seemed to have to _know_ Akechi. That had to be what it was, right? Kurusu, in all his stubbornness, saw a ghost of a man and decided to care about it. Was Akechi safe? No, of course not. He hadn’t known safety since before his mother died and even then, it had been a ruse, a lie. But Akechi couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say anything. He had no choice but to hang himself with lies.

       He couldn’t admit that seeing Kurusu injured because of him broke something in him, a part of him he’d kept near, an oath that he wouldn’t get close enough to someone to hurt them with his choices — that he wouldn’t care enough about someone that —. 

       Wait, no, he couldn’t. 

       It was Mishima he was looking after. Yes, and protecting Mishima involved protecting Kurusu. The man had suffered enough and Akechi was not a monster yet, so he wouldn’t take anything more from Mishima, not now.

       God, it infuriated Akechi, to know that Kurusu had blatantly disregarded his instruction and got himself hurt. Didn’t he know it would destroy Mishima if he died?If Kurusu had just listened, he would have been safe. Kurusu would be not injured. He would be with Niijima who was likely worried sick and Akechi would be able to call his father. Akechi would be able to proceed with his plan and not have a painful session with Shido awaiting him because this particular report would have to wait until morning. Then, of course, there was the potential that Nakano could prove to be a liar, that the Niijima sisters were still in danger, but if the man wanted power, he would get it, with or without the Niijima sisters being protected. This, of course, was not to mention that Mishima’s fan-site was a problem that would never be something Akechi could solve. And on top of all of this, Kurusu was sitting here, injured and asking Akechi if things were okay.

       The scripted response that escaped Akechi mimicked not his television persona, nor the one he wore in Leblanc when Kurusu and Mishima tore him away from work. It was the gross amalgamation that came from the skew of his distorted features. It was all the corners of the mouth caked with blood and pools of pitch black beneath a red gaze. It was scars and tears in his flesh from staples, screws, and tacks pressed into the corners of his face, hardly hidden by hairlines and smeared makeup. It was the way his shoulders slumped from the weight of all the masks pulling at his features.

       “As you witnessed, Kurusu, I had things under control.”

       “Goro —,” Kurusu said.

       “What?!” Akechi snapped.

       “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

       Kurusu was right. Akechi couldn’t deny it. Having held it all together for so long, with his mask falling from his features, and his heart beating out of his chest, Goro Akechi was left with one truth beyond all others, the fact that his hands were shaking.

       **They haven’t stopped shaking.**

       At this rate, with his history, if Kurusu kept looking at him with eyes that tore past the layers and layers of protection he had applied, if Mishima kept becoming a target — if Sae Niijima and her younger sister became victims of such an unjust game, his hands would never stop shaking. It was too late, wasn’t it? The game, after all, was his life. Akechi had too much at stake, too much to lose, and couldn’t let Shido continue the path he was treading. Akechi had to tear it all down, because if he didn’t, who would?

       After a long moment, Akechi spoke.

       “Kurusu, I will tell you the truth, if you swear to leave it alone.” Akechi said, “No questions, nothing. That is the only thing I will ask of you.”

       “Just,” Kurusu said and nodded, “— tell me if you’re going to be okay.”

       “I’m — I am not okay, Kurusu,” Akechi confessed, “I haven’t been for a while, but I know I will be.”

       It was as honest as he could allow himself to be, but still, he was left wondering. 

       Could Kurusu taste his lies?

* * *

 

       Kurusu, true to his word, dropped the subject. Akechi supposed that’s how he found himself sitting opposite of said barista in his living area. The detective was left pondering the idea that Kurusu only conceded because he saw something of himself in Akechi, perhaps in the way he held his head low in his first year at Shujin. Perhaps, Kurusu knew Akechi had his reasons to remain silent. Perhaps, Kurusu understood that even if Akechi wanted to tell the truth, that he couldn’t. Not now, at least.

       He cursed that line of wishful thinking and cursed how he couldn’t focus on anything but Kurusu sitting in his apartment, a book from Akechi’s sparsely furnished shelves in his hands, looking like he belonged there. Akechi hardly felt like he belonged in his own home, but Kurusu seemed to blend seamlessly into his environments. Again, it must have been the price of laying low for so long, becoming almost invisible against the scenery for fear of upsetting the status quo, of forfeiting what freedom he could ever achieve with such a disgusting mark on his record.

       Akechi shouldn’t have offered Kurusu a change of clothes, seeing as the barista now wore one of three pairs of joggers Akechi owned and a shirt that was just a little oversized on him. While Akechi and Kurusu were similar heights and builds, the shirt hung slightly askew on Kurusu’s shoulder, dipping just below one sharp collar bone.Akechi himself wore another pair of joggers, a shirt that fit a bit better than the one he loaned Kurusu and did not, under any circumstances, considering pulling his hair back. His guard could not be allowed to drop too terribly low, not with Kurusu, who knew far too much, in his apartment.

       When Akechi gave Kurusu a change of clothes, he mentioned that he would have offered to have Kurusu’s clothes laundered, but suggested it was best that they still within his apartment if at all possible. The unspoken implications of having been followed, of being watched, went unspoken. Kurusu didn’t say anything, but nodded.

       Akechi had offered Kurusu his room and said he would set himself up on the couch. Kurusu accepted, but made no move to leave the living space. Akechi was tired, he always was, but had worked at his desk as Kurusu occupied himself, book in hand. Akechi hadn’t been able to focus. His eyes kept trailing to Kurusu, the intruder in his home. 

       He felt compelled to be a better host. He also felt compelled to discuss the circumstances that landed them in this situation. Part of him was almost angry that Kurusu accepted that dropping the subject was the only option. Akechi, if in his position, would have manipulated the situation to get what he wanted. He supposed that was what difference there was in him. 

       Akechi had moved to sit opposite of Kurusu by this point. He frowned, consumed by the day’s happenings. 

       He should be penning speeches to recite for his father, conjuring ways to lessen the severity of the punishment he would receive for ignoring Shido’s multiple attempts to contact him. He knew it wouldn’t be pretty, and that was why the ice packs from earlier were now freezing once more, why his first aid kit was still fully stocked despite what little gauze he used to wrap Kurusu’s hand. Akechi had more than enough to patch wounds, to wrap his torso or limbs, to hide the damage beneath a white collared shirt., which, of course, would be immaculate, despite whatever punishment Shido saw fit for Akechi’s insubordination. As his thoughts lingered on Shido, he found himself thoroughly examining Kurusu and recalling the question he hadn’t ignored but run from when he left Kurusu and Niijima at Leblanc mere hours ago.

       “Why did you ask if Masayoshi Shido was my father, Kurusu?” Akechi asked.

       “So,” Kurusu said, “you can pry, but I can’t?” Grey eyes glanced up over the top of his book, meeting Akechi’s gaze. Kurusu hadn’t hesitated at all in his response. It left the detective contemplating if Kurusu had been truly been reading. Perhaps, like Akechi, he was overwhelmed, unable to chain himself to the absurdity of the reality they found themselves trapped in.

       Again, this must have been wishful thinking, though that hardly kept the slight curve to Akechi’s lips at Kurusu’s response at bay.

       “I said nothing of the sort,” Akechi protested, a hint of mischief in his tone, “There exists only one facet of questioning I request you avoid.”

       “If you say so,” Kurusu said, rolling his eyes.

       “So —,” Akechi asked, once more, tone losing the brief lilt of playfulness it bore as quickly as it gained it, “Why did you ask if Masayoshi Shido was my father? Surely,” Akechi looked away from Kurusu, then, “if you’ve found it difficult to avoid hearing my name, you would know this to be true.”

       “Oh, that,” Kurusu responded, drawing Akechi’s attention back to his companion, “— I guess I still can't believe it. That you, with the heroic act you’ve got going on, were related to him.”

       While a sour outlook on his father always intrigued Akechi, he played the role of doting son admirably. From the raise of his eyebrow to the slight tilt of his head, his lips were parted to come to his father’s defense as he’s trained himself to do after all these years working alongside the man.

       “He’s beloved by the people, Kurusu,” Akechi explained, tone almost incredulous, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

       “He’s the guy.” Kurusu simply stated.

       “The guy?” Akechi asked.

       “Masayoshi Shido is the man who got me arrested,” Kurusu explained with a sigh. He closed the book in his hand and leaned forward, attention seemingly focused entirely on Akechi. The line of his mouth was thin, lacking the relaxed curve Akechi recognized each time he set foot into Leblanc. He didn’t know what was more shocking discover, Kurusu’s sudden shift in demeanor, or the fact that the man he invited into his home was a true enemy in his father’s eyes. “I stood between him and a woman because he couldn’t take no for an answer,” Kurusu continued, “I laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. He fell and hurt himself, but I was charged with assault.”

       A thousand thoughts thrust themselves to the forefront of Akechi’s consciousness.

       The most prominent of all being that — Kurusu knew.

       Akechi’s blood ran cold.

       Kurusu knew that Shido was corrupt. Kurusu had known Akechi was the son of a monster. Kurusu had known that Akechi was related to the man who ruined his life. Kurusu had chosen to care about Akechi despite these things.

       Kurusu, even after today, having witnessed Akechi pitted against Nakano, didn’t seem to think Akechi was a monster.

       In fact, Kurusu seemed to have trouble believing Akechi was related to Shido, at all.

       Even so, this information only lent itself to exacerbating the complications of knowing Kurusu. Surely, if Shido were to learn of Kurusu’s presence in Akechi’s life, he would take far too much pleasure in punishing Kurusu once more. Worse was, he’d probably task Akechi with the job. Akechi knew his father was cruel and he himself had thought Kurusu’s name and situation had sounded familiar, but even the detective never would have guessed that chance would lead them to cross paths.

       Suddenly, it wasn’t just Akechi’s life on the line anymore. Whether Kurusu knew it or not, if Shido caught wind of Akechi’s acquaintanceship with him, Kurusu would likely have far more to worry about than his life being ruined, he’d have to worry about it being in jeopardy.

       Especially if Shido assumed that Kurusu meant something to the son whose puppet strings he was pulling.


	16. none of it could ever touch him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi supposed that there must be something incredibly compelling about crossing paths with someone who seemed to understand you, someone who has witnessed you struggling — suffering — and decided to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait, my dudes! Post graduation and moving has kept me hella busy, but here's an update! (PS. I also have the next two chapters ready to go!)
> 
> Remember to hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments with your thoughts!

       And there it was, the problem of Akira Kurusu, epitomized in one statement.

       Kurusu meant something. He had to, lest Akechi would not have risked so much to protect him. Whether it was strictly for Mishima’s sake or his own, Akechi was left with the weight of this truth. Kurusu was leverage — leverage that Shido would not hesitate taking advantage of. In this game of chess between Akechi and his father, Kurusu and Mishima were pawns, but ones Akechi was not willing to sacrifice. The kings of each side of the board were calculating their moves and Akechi was at a distinct disadvantage, because he know knew he had two pieces he could not lose, while Shido was surely prepared to hit his son with everything he had.

       He supposed his only mercy was that for now, while Shido might be aware that Akechi would not lose Mishima, Kurusu was lurking in the background, another seemingly random piece that Akechi would undoubtedly sacrifice in the name of his father.

       Perhaps it was fate, that brought Akira Kurusu into Akechi’s life because if Mishima could be leverage in Shido’s favor, Kurusu could be the same but in Akechi’s own.

       Leverage it was.

       Kurusu could be classified as leverage.

       That was something Akechi could manage.

       That was something Akechi could justify.

       Akechi pinched the bridge of his nose and smiled, the expression resigned and mirthless. It seemed as if the ever evolving complications Kurusu seemed to interject into his life had no end.

       Yet, Akechi could not help but find himself a touch pleased, in some manner of speaking, to have unwittingly associated himself with someone his father would consider an enemy. Kurusu was dangerous territory. And as anxious as Akechi was at having learned of Shido’s and Kurusu’s prior history, the detective felt the gears of his mind turning with an additional boost of enthusiasm. Admittedly, part of him was thrilled at the prospect of having more information, at actively cavorting with the enemy. Perhaps he could convince Kurusu to testify when the time was right. Akechi would just have to uncover the identity of the woman Kurusu had protected, add it to his files, and urge Sae Niijima to pursue the case once he outed himself as Shido’s accomplice.

       If he could keep Kurusu from Shido’s attention until his father was elected, then Akechi could crush his father and save someone from his direct influence. He could wipe Kurusu’s record clean. Even if Akechi were to hang himself, he could at the very least, see with his own eyes a man he knew freed from his father’s grasp. Saving someone who had been wronged and trapped by his father’s grotesque machinations had to be enough. 

       Saving someone who stood a chance had to be enough.

       If only Akechi could reveal his plan to Kurusu, that thoughtless man who would undoubtedly force himself into the complex and volatile situation that Akechi was already knee-deep in. 

       Akechi couldn’t though. 

       He had a part to play, a devoted son, indeed.

       “People can change, Kurusu,” Akechi said, despite the strong taste of bile in the back of his throat. “My father is good for Japan,” He insisted, carefully considering his words, “ — regardless of the mistakes he has made.”

       “Goro —,” Kurusu said, leaning forward from where he sat, eyes glinting something dangerous behind the glasses he wore. There was no smile, though, and certainly no smirk pulling at his lips. No, Kurusu kept his expression neutral, but he couldn’t hide those eyes. The glasses might protect him from most, but Akechi had learned in the short while they knew each other where to look. Kurusu paused for a moment, as if he were considering how to prod at Akechi’s defenses, the weaknesses he knew Akechi had. Kurusu, if Akechi had learned anything from his time with the man, was certainly considering where to poke to relieve the pressure but not shatter the glass of the man before him. Finally, he spoke, “You said _mistakes_.”

       Then, Akechi knew he had made an error of his own. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” He said despite this, feigning ignorance.

       “You don’t mince your words, Goro,” Kurusu countered, “What other mistakes has he made?”

       “Kurusu, certainly you understand a turn of phrase,” Akechi responded, smiling before sighing. He averted his gaze from Kurusu and truly couldn’t tell whether the downcast of his own features was a result of sincerity or imitation. “While I sympathize with what has happened to you, and I do not excuse my father for his behavior — I cannot do anything about it. The case is closed,” He looked Kurusu in the eye, then. “If I could help you right now, I would.”

       “I’m not asking for your help, Goro,” Akira said, concern etched into the furrow of his brow.

       A quick glance at Akechi’s own hands proved their were still shaking. He wondered if the tremors running up and down his spine where phantom or reality. Nonetheless, it didn’t matter. Akira Kurusu knew the truth. Akira Kurusu would not back down, especially if he was aware that something was awry.

       “Akira —,” Akechi said then, quietly. “Please, leave it be.”

       He pled that Kurusu stand down, that he stop prying, not only for Kurusu’s own sake, but for Mishima’s and for his own.

“You’re afraid,” Kurusu said, softly, the sharp look in his eyes fading, the corners of his mouth curling downward.

       Akechi took a deep breath and forced his body still, his features neutral.

       “You’re mistaken,” Akechi said.

       “Is that right?” Kurusu asked, clearly exasperated with Akechi’s resistance.

       “Yes,” Akechi insisted. “You are.”

       “Then answer me this,” Kurusu said. He stood then, completely discarding the book that had been in his possession, page number likely forgotten. He looked down at Akechi and asked, “Why don’t you have his last name?”

       “If you must know,” Akechi said, rising to meet his gaze, “my mother ran away when she learned she was with child.”

       Kurusu’s eyes narrowed and Akechi knew, before he spoke, that this was a challenge he could not meet. Whatever Kurusu was to say next, he could not defend against.

       “And why is that?”

       Kurusu would ask a question he already knew the answer to. Of course, Kurusu knew. Shido was an abuser. Long before Akechi had come into the world, Shido lived by his distorted desires, and Kurusu had bore witness to those desires firsthand.

       Kurusu also had to know Akechi was certain to lie in response, but nevertheless, Akechi’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know,” Akechi said, “but my father was heartbroken.” Honestly, the detective didn’t know why he was wasting his breath. He never believed what his father had told him, and if Kurusu was as adept at seeing through Akechi’s masks as he seemed to be, he certainly wasn’t going to buy it. Yet, Akechi defended a man he hated to one he couldn’t allow himself to care for, “He didn’t stop looking for her, but by the time he found her — found us — she was dead and I was in an orphanage.”

       The staged suicide of someone who loved Akechi, however painful and mistaken she was at times, haunted Akechi. He knew, deep down, his mother did truly care for him. She had hated his father and loved Akechi, but all that did not matter now, since she was gone.

       The challenge in Kurusu’s gaze fled as soon as it had appeared.

       “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kurusu said, and Akechi swore he would never stopped being surprised at the way Kurusu reacted to things. He didn’t call Akechi out on his lie. He simply acknowledged Akechi’s grief. 

       Had Akechi ever been allowed to grieve?

       “It is in the past, of course.” Akechi said, a mirthless laugh parting his lips, another lie escaping him. “I am lucky that Shido found me, aren’t I?” He laughed again, shaking his head. “My time in foster care —,” Akechi smiled, the expression small and melancholy,“was unbecoming.”

       It was more than he had intended to say, but Kurusu had that affect on him, whether Akechi would admit it or not. There was something inexplicably compelling about how sincere Kurusu seemed, even when he wasn’t trying to be. Kurusu would certainly drive any sane man mad, but what of monsters, of those born of beasts in the guise of men — what would Kurusu do to Akechi?

       Akechi didn’t know, but he had the startling realization that since Kurusu seemed to insist upon caring about him, that he was likely to find out.

       After a long moment, Kurusu spoke. “You know that you don’t owe him anything, right?”

       Akechi laughed. Of course he didn’t owe Shido anything, except ruin. And he would certainly deliver.

       “You’re quite insistent, aren’t you?” Akechi asked.

       “Guilty.” A small smile pulled at Kurusu’s features.

       “Let’s not play games, Kurusu,” Akechi said, taking a step back from Kurusu then. The detective had to put some physical distance between them, especially if Kurusu kept insisting upon destroying any distance otherwise. “Tell me what it is that you want to say.”

       Kurusu’s eyes brightened at Akechi’s permission to speak freely. It made Akechi wonder exactly how much the other man was holding back.

       “Your supervisor,” Kurusu said, “the one you mentioned to Nakano. It’s Shido, isn’t it?”

       “You would suggest that my father deals in Tokyo’s crime scene?” Akechi asked, arching a brow.

       “Well, his detective prince son — the one who saved a bunch of high school kids from an abuser — does,” Kurusu said, “Plus, Nakano said you were like your father. Even if your father isn’t directly connected to the criminal underworld, he’s gotta be infamous.”

       Akechi grinned and decided to silence Kurusu the only way he knew how, telling the other man a truth they both knew too well. 

       “No one would believe you.”

       “That doesn’t make it any less true,” Kurusu countered. “If I could convince you I’m innocent, if you could convince Japan that Kamoshida was an abuser and that Madarame was a fraud, then you could do this.” Kurusu averted his gaze and righted his posture. He clenched his fists, injured and otherwise, the wince escaping him indicative enough of the pain. Despite this, Kurusu didn’t release his grasp on the invisible rope that tethered the weight of his influence on Akechi. “You could take your father down,” He said, quietly,“unless you think he’s really changed.”

       Akechi swallowed hard. Kurusu was dangerously close to the truth and he was appealing to all the parts of the detective that Akechi thought made him human. First, how he was able to convince a school, the law, and a nation of the ill will of a former olympian and second, how he convinced the world of the fraud of a renowned artist. Kurusu believed he could end Shido’s career and what was worse, is he believed Akechi would do it if he thought it was the right thing.

       _Timing_ , Akechi reminded himself. Timing was key.

       For just a little longer, the detective had to play his part.

       “You will be leaving me no choice unless you keep your head down,” Akechi threatened, in a final attempt to get Kurusu to cease this line of questioning, in an attempt to convince the barista to abandon his pursuit of Akechi’s friendship or whatever it was he wanted from him.

       “What are you going to do?” Kurusu asked.

       “Accidents happen,” Akechi said, anger boiling just beneath the surface at how impetuous Kurusu seemed about his own well being, especially when Mishima was a factor, when Boss relied on him, when he had friends like Sakamoto and Niijima, and when Kurusu had a stupid stray cat that frequented where he worked that likely relied on him for food.

       “Is that what Shido says?” Kurusu responded, equally foolhardy.

       “Kurusu!” Akechi snapped. “I will not have you in danger by my hand!”

       They both looked at one another, surprise evident in their eyes. Akechi averted his eyes, schooling his features into a neutral expression, though he refused to meet Kurusu’s gaze. He couldn’t believe how reckless he’d become, how unhinged he was, to say such a thing in front of Kurusu. 

       “Oh my god,” Kurusu said, “you blame yourself.”

       Akechi’s anger was a poison, one that spread quickly through his veins. It mattered not if part of him knew Kurusu wouldn’t do anything rash with the information Akechi had been recklessly divulging, the knowledge that the barista had pried from reluctant jaws.

       “You idiot!” Akechi said, “Getting involved.” He approached Kurusu then, an accusatory finger pressed against the other man’s chest, teeth grinding together, his entire being bleeding vexation. “If you had just maintained your distance — that civil behavior we spoke of — then we would not be here.”

       Kurusu exhaled, any tension that manifested in his form from Akechi’s outburst leaving his form along with the breath. He didn’t back away from Akechi.

       “Goro,” He said softly, “it’s not your fault.” Kurusu looked into Akechi’s eyes, and the detective couldn’t help but wonder what Kurusu saw there, in the indignation that he knew alighted his gaze. What could Kurusu possibly see that would compel him to be kind now, to not fight him. “I put myself there,” Kurusu explained. “I followed you. You warned me and I ignored it. Because I was scared for you, because I didn’t — couldn’t look the other way when I thought you were in danger.”

       “I —,” Akechi began, hand falling from Kurusu’s chest, back to his side, “will undoubtedly be punished for this transgression.” He sighed, and said what he could, nothing more, nothing less. “The supervisor I spoke of would have allowed Nakano’s men to do as they pleased with you.” Akechi couldn’t explained what compelled him to speak with such ambiguity, especially when Kurusu had already pieced together the most damning evidence of all, how monstrous his father was. Nonetheless, he had to pretend, at least for his own sake, that he hadn’t failed, that his mission wasn’t compromised because chance happened to force Kurusu into his life. “He wouldn’t have blinked,” Akechi added, “And for Mishima’s sake, I could not sacrifice his best friend.”

       Kurusu looked to the ground beneath their feet then, a small smile pulling at his lips.

       “For Mishima, yeah —?” He said.

       “He has already suffered enough, has he not?” Akechi noted.

       “Yeah,” Kurusu agreed, “he really has.” After a moment, Kurusu shrugged and said, “We should probably try to get some sleep, shouldn't we?”

       “Kurusu,” Akechi said, “I don’t believe I could sleep if I wanted to.”

       Kurusu smiled and shook his head, “Goro?”

       “Hmm?” The detective replied.

       “Please — call me Akira.”

       Akechi laughed, the expression tired and amused, even as he sat back on the small sofa, gesturing for Kurusu to do the same. Only when Kurusu joined him, did Akechi respond.

       “I don’t suppose I could sway you to stop calling me by my first name,” Akechi commented, looking from Kurusu to the floor beneath his feet. “Any of the distance I tried to impose between us, you’ve destroyed,” He met Kurusu’s gaze, then, resigning himself to this unfortunate intimacy he would be forced to share with Kurusu. And if the smile on his face was a little less forced than it had been before when faced Kurusu’s company, noone else had to know. “It would appear off color anyway if you were to refer to me by my first name and I did not return the favor.”

       “However you have to convince yourself, Goro,” The barista said, smiling back.

       “You are inherently persuasive —,” The detective hesitated for a moment, “Akira.”

       The remainder of the night would drag on. Of this, Akechi was certain. In the morning, he knew he would face a great number of challenges but for the first time since he began his quest to ruin Shido, did he feel lighter. The weight of his choices, of his past, of the present, and of the destruction he saw along the horizon of his life didn’t feel so heavy. Maybe Kurusu had that affect on those around him or perhaps what he had told Kurusu tonight was the closest he’d been to honest in far too long. It was cathartic, it had to be. If his breath was less shallow and his hands were still, Akechi believed he could understand why Mishima, Kitagawa, Okumura, and Niijima insisted on remaining by his side.

       Akechi supposed there must be something incredibly compelling about crossing paths with someone who seemed to understand you, someone who has witnessed you struggling and suffering and decided to intervene. Akechi himself did not always have the best intentions when chose to interfere in the lives of others, but something about Kurusu led him to believe that Kurusu did.

       Damn Akira Kurusu, he would become leverage, indeed.

* * *

 

       Since retiring, even after such an exhausting day, seemed to evade both Kurusu and Akechi, the former suggested they watch something. Akechi arched a brow at the suggestion, especially with how cavalier Kurusu mentioned his idea but a quick glance at the other man assuaged his apprehension. The barista wore a small smile on his face, so Akechi nodded. When Kurusu offered to watch _Featherman_ , Akechi again is surprised, before recalling the one article of _Featherman_ memorabilia he’d kept throughout his childhood, displayed on the very shelf that Kurusu had seized _Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes_ from. Instead of calling Kurusu out on his catering to his sensibilities, Akechi allowed himself to appreciate the gesture, even more so when Kurusu mentions he has a friend who is a big fan of the franchise that got him into it.

       “More like a younger sister,” Kurusu amended.

       Kurusu seemed to have many of those. Friends, that is. It reminded Akechi of what an awful idea this was, to find any sort of familiarity in the form of Akira. And while the repercussions of not being able to convincing the other man to behave otherwise had yet to be seen, though Akechi was certain that one of them was to pay in blood somewhere down the line, he had to acknowledge that despite his better judgement, he didn’t resent Kurusu for existing.

       If the life of Akira Kurusu became forfeit because of his interactions with Goro Akechi, the detective would be the first to invite Yuuki Mishima to exact his own revenge on Akechi’s person. Somehow, he knew Mishima would take the opportunity. Being close to darkness, after all, begets darkness. 

       Perhaps that was what Akechi feared most, why he kept himself at an arm’s length from those who tried to befriend him. He must be afraid of tainting them, of forging demons of his own design, much like the underlings of his own father. But even when faced with Kurusu, a pure being — even when he was on his knees in an abandoned warehouse, teeth stained crimson with his own blood, all Akechi was struck by was how the reprehensible nature of the situation never seemed to touch Kurusu.

       He couldn’t linger on the idea, though, that everything he touched need not be condemned to a life unworthy of light, of freedom, of hope. He couldn’t risk such a philosophy, not when Shido had been known to kill for his gain. Akechi had to believe he was right, in keeping himself separate from the world. He was protecting others. 

       If he allowed himself to linger on thoughts that would suggest otherwise, Akechi was sure to become a man possessed.

       So Akechi chose to laugh, and smile, at least for now. And he forgot, momentarily, that he was most certainly going to be beaten within an inch of his life when he reported back to Shido.


	17. to cloak danger in distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, would you look at that, another update — despite everything in my life trying to keep me from writing. With that being said, things are about to escalate. I hope you guys are as excited as I am.
> 
> I really want to hear what you guys think about this one. It was supposed to be lighthearted but uh — I'll just let you read it to figure out what really happened.
> 
> Honestly, come yell at me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments below. I'm dying for feedback on this update.

       The obnoxious ringing of cellphone woke Akechi. Near maroon eyes blinked one, twice, and a third time before opening wide as the events of the previous evening came rushing to the forefront of his consciousness. The last thing Akechi remembered watching _Featherman_ with Kurusu. _Akira_ , he corrected himself as he recalled agreeing to call the barista by his given name.

       There was no time for those musings, though, not when Akechi found his own phone, which had been silenced to delay the onslaught of notifications from Shido or his men — undoubtedly demanding an update on the Kaneshiro situation. A cursory glance proved so much, though a text from Yusuke Kitagawa was a surprising find. It was a warning that the other man was to come by at 9:00 AM to return a novel he had borrowed from Akechi a while ago.

       Oh no, this was not good. A quick glance towards the kitchen proved Akechi’s worst fears a reality. Akira was still in Akechi’s clothes, looking thoroughly mussed and just a little bit sleep deprived, flashing Akechi a small smile even as he spoke in hushed tones to whoever had called him. Akechi had very little time, if Kitagawa proved to be punctual — as he always was. He quickly walked into his bedroom, then to the washroom and brushed his teeth. Akechi ran a brush through his hair before giving up and pulling it back, returning to the living space only a few short minutes after he left it.

       “Noon in Akihabara. I’ll meet you there,” Akira had said, ending the call at Akechi’s approach.

       If Akira’s eyes widened a little as he looked at Akechi, the detective chose to ignore it, along with abrupt burning of his features as Akira’s gaze seemed to linger.

       Akechi cleared his throat and said, “I’ve laid out a spare toothbrush for you.”

       Akira seemed to realize he was being spoken to, and shook his head, as if he were knocking himself from his own stupor. He smiled and said, “Your hair — it uh — it looks good like that.” The detective was speechless and no amount of experience of schooling his expression could hide the flush of his features at the compliment. Sure, Akechi heard compliments often, but never when he looked his worst, and never when he felt his worse. The detective was certain he was silent for a moment too long in response when he found Akira walking past him toward the bathroom, a murmured note of gratitude escaping him as he disappeared through the doorway to Akechi’s bedroom.

       Akechi cursed under his breath, but wasn’t allowed to linger too long on the interaction with Akira, not when a text and a rapping at the door alerted him to Kitagawa’s arrival almost thirty seconds later. To the best of his abilities, Akechi straightened out the clothes he slept in and approached the door, hoping that Akira would be occupied brushing his teeth while he took the book from Kitagawa’s hands and ushered the artist out. He plastered on his best smile and opened the door to greet Kitagawa.

       “Kitagawa-kun, I appreciate you coming all this way to return my novel,” Akechi said, picture perfect smile pulling at his features. Kitagawa smiled in response and presented the book, which Akechi relieved him of. “I trust you enjoyed it?”

       “Of course, Akechi-kun,” Kitagawa replied, “You have yet to disappoint me with your —,” Kitagawa seemed to trip over his words then, his gaze shifting from Akechi to behind him, before he returned his sight to Akechi as quickly as he averted it, saying, “recommendations.”

       Akechi maintained as much composure as he could as he quickly glanced over his shoulder, already knowing what he would see. Akira, surely enough, had poked his head out of Akechi’s bedroom, toothbrush still in his mouth — likely curious as to who could be visiting Akechi this early. Akira disappeared around the corner and Akechi turned back towards Kitagawa, whose brow seemed to be furrowed in something that mirrored a cross between both confusion and concern.

       “Kitagawa-kun, I assure you that —,” Akechi began.

       “No, I apologize,” Kitagawa said, interrupting him. “I should have assumed you were preoccupied when you did not respond to my earlier message.” Kitagawa shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable, though he seemed to have forced his features into a more neutral expression. “I was simply unaware that you had — company.” Akechi did not miss how Kitagawa had paused a moment before finishing his statement, as if he were searching for the right word to describe what Akira’s presence Akechi’s home looked like. Akechi could only imagine what scenarios the other man was conjuring before he seemed to settle on _company_ as a tactful descriptor.

       Akechi was quick to protest and correct the other man, “I assure you, Kitagawa-kun, this is not what it looks like.”

       Kitagawa shook his head and responded, “I assure _you_ , Akechi-kun. You have nothing to explain to me. Of all people, I understand that you must have reasons for what _activities_ you choose to engage in and what company you choose to keep.”

       Akechi was horrified by the implications behind the activities that Kitagawa likely believed he had participated in with Akira. The detective swallowed hard, attempting to conjure a response that Kitagawa might believe when the artist’s eyes seemed to look past him once more. Akechi did not have to turn his back to know that Akira had entered the room once more.

       Akechi hadn’t planned for a scenario like this, so he found himself at a loss of what to do other than address the proverbial elephant in the room. Perhaps, if he were to introduce Akira to Kitagawa, the other man would understand that he was most certainly getting the wrong idea about the nature of Akechi’s relationship with the man who was currently inhabiting his apartment.

       Akechi turned and gestured toward Akira, beckoning the other man to come forward. He looked at Kitagawa as Akira approached and introduced the two men to each other. “Yusuke Kitagawa, meet Akira Kurusu. Akira Kurusu, Yusuke Kitagawa.”

       Kitagawa bowed.

       Akira smiled, addressing Akechi as he glanced between the artist and the detective.

       “The artist?” Akira asked.

       Akechi felt his eyes widen at Akira’s response. And if the way Akira’s grin grew was any indicator, Akira seemed pleased to have surprised him. “Mishima mentioned that you knew him,” Akira said, answering the detective’s unspoken question. He then addressed the artist, surprising Akechi even more with what he said next, “Mishima also showed me some of your work, Kitagawa-kun. It’s incredible.”

       Kitagawa bowed again, stuttering slightly in response. “I — I thank you, Kurusu-kun,” the artist said, recovering quickly from the surprise of Akira’s acknowledgment. “Considering the circumstances of my career so far, I am grateful to be acknowledged for my contributions to the art world, though I do feel as if I’ve fallen into a slump as of late.”

       Akechi was relieved that the conversation had successfully derailed from his and Akira’s relationship. And while Akira’s presence was the cause of the suspicion in Kitagawa’s gaze, Akira had also diverted Kitagawa’s attention to art rather than his unexplained presence, so Akechi supposed he couldn’t be too angry at the other man.

       “Don’t worry,” Akira said, a small smile pulling at his lips as he nodded, “I’m sure you’ll get over it in no time.”

       Then, something in Kitagawa seemed to shift. His gaze trailed from Akira to Akechi and then back. His eyes widened and Akechi recognized that look.

       Of course Kitagawa would be inspired by Akira.

       Akechi resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Kitagawa spoke.

       “Kurusu-kun,” Kitagawa said, “I know that we have just met.” He smiled, gaze locked on Akira, “Yet, I hope you will not find it too bold that I ask you to model for me.” Kitagawa gestured between Akira and Akechi, a soft laugh passing through his lips. “Even now, standing opposite Akechi-kun, I find myself inspired, the juxtaposition is quite compelling.”

       Akechi wouldn’t allow himself to linger on this ‘juxtaposition’ Kitagawa seemed to see in having just met Akira, though the idea that Kitagawa could see chains and cages when he looked at Akechi and the opposite when faced with Akira was telling enough. He didn’t need to see what Kitagawa would draw to understand. 

       He didn’t want to see what beauty could be born of a subject like Akira. At that thought, Akechi was reminded of the times he wished that Kitagawa could find a more fitting subject for his paintings, for his sketches. He had wished Kitagawa could find something worthy of capturing, of painstakingly recreating. Akechi had known it wasn’t himself and he supposed — if he had been struck by how Akira seemed pristine on his knees is an abandoned warehouse with bloody teeth, that whatever quality Akira had that made him take pause then, wasn’t something that Akira only possessed in moments of duress. No, it had to be something he carried at all times.

       Akechi only wished he could articulate what it was about Akira.

       If Akechi were an honest man, he would admit that he was envious, yet fascinated by Akira’s ability to draw people to himself. Akira simply lived and breathed and somehow intoxicated all those he crossed paths with. He poisoned them — and Akechi was terrified that Akira had tainted his blood with the same venom that surely coursed through Kitagawa’s veins now.

       A very quiet part of Akechi muttered the truth — any spell cast upon him by Akira Kurusu began when they first met. Another part reminded him that not all spells were curses.

       “I —,” Akira said, looking towards Akechi, as if asking for permission. The sound of the other man’s voice drew him from his musings and Akechi simply nodded in response. Akira smiled, before looking back to the artist. “Kitagawa-kun, I’d be honored,” Kurusu said. 

       Akechi watched Kitagawa as Akira agreed to serve as muse. The way the artist positively beamed at Akira made him sick, because this was something else he could never provide for those who considered themselves his friends. Akechi could not conjure joy in others, he could not forge a bond of true companionship, he could not serve as a muse nor a rival, not when he couldn't allow them to get closer than they already were. 

       He could not draw them closer. 

       He could not be Akira Kurusu.

       Akechi was only half listening to whatever Akira and Kitagawa were speaking of when he recognized Akira’s voice inviting Kitagawa into his home.

       “Want to come in for coffee?” Akira offered. “It’s instant, but I don’t think Goro would mind if we worked out the details really quickly.”

       Akechi nearly gaped at how presumptuous it was of Akira to suggest such a course of action and to top it off, Akira had called him Goro in front of Kitagawa. Kitagawa, Okumura, and Niijima, who he had known for years didn’t even call him Goro. The artist was certain to have even more questions than he had before of the nature of his relationship with Akira.

       True to form, Kitagawa quickly masked the surprise in his expression with the haste that Akechi banished the flush of his features with.

       Of course — Akira would simultaneously resolve and complicate this situation.

       He knew Akira and Kitagawa both were expecting a response. So, as naturally as possible, with a trademark plastic smile pulling at his features, Akechi said, “I don’t mind at all. Please, come in, Kitagawa.”

       Kitagawa entered the apartment and Akechi invited him to sit on the sofa, even as Akira ventured into the kitchen to prepare the coffee he had offered the artist.

       “Kitagawa-kun, do you take your coffee black?” Akira said, from the kitchen.

       “I can come assist you to make it to my liking,” Kitagawa insisted, making to stand.

       Akira laughed and dismissed him, “No worries, I’ll bring it to you.” He then addressed Akechi, “Not to fear, Goro. I remember how you like yours.”

       The surprise that Kitagawa had previously banished from his features returned then and without Akira’s attention on his person, the artist seemed to allow it to remain. Akechi felt like a child whose mother found his hand stuck in a cookie jar. At the very least, he imagined that this was what a child who had the luxury of childhood like that would feel like.

       It was mortifying.

Akechi said nothing.

“Kurusu-kun seems quite kind,” Kitagawa mentioned, speaking quietly. “I must admit,” He continued, “I am surprised that you have those in your life that I am unaware of.”

       There was no indicator of accusation in his tone, but the disappointment in the artist’s face showed in how the corners of his mouth turned downward. The change was so minuscule that anyone who didn’t know Ktiagawa was sure to miss it.

       It caused something in Akechi’s chest to constrict painfully, but like with most unpleasant things in his life, he had to ignore it.

       Nonetheless, he felt compelled to explain how Kitagawa had yet to learn of Akira. He felt he owed the artist that much.

       “I first met him the day before I last spent time with you, Okumura, and Niijima as a group,” Akechi explained. “It was by chance that he and I crossed paths. Then, I learned he was a friend of Mishima’s. It was — unavoidable, it seemed, for us to meet.” He paused, forcing a contrived laugh to fill the silence, even as he damned the sincere curve of his mouth as he thought of Akira. “And I must admit that Akira can be quite — persuasive.”

       The detective didn’t bother mentioning that Akira was the delinquent Niijima tutored, nor did he say anything more than strictly necessary. He could not — would not — subject Kitagawa to the danger of knowing more than that he and Akira had met. While Akira had forced himself into Akechi’s life, Kitagawa maintained the distance Akechi had placed between them. He was grateful to the artist for that, if only because the danger of his acquaintanceship was minute. For now, at least, Kitagawa and Okumura were not at risk from simply knowing Akechi. 

       It was Mishima, Akira, the Niijima sisters, and himself that were on the line. The price of allowing himself the affection of Mishima had nearly forfeited the man’s life, and Akira along with Sae and Makoto nearly paid with their own. Knowing Akechi as more than just a figurehead, an icon, and a symbol was a far too perilous game. 

       He truly needed to convince his pawns to turn away while there was still time, before Shido wiped them from the chessboard himself.

       Akechi found himself not anticipating Kitagawa’s response. There was no easy acceptance, no courteous exchange of laughter. In fact, the detective was a little taken aback by what the artist said in regard to his familiarity with Akira.

       “What of Okumura?” Kitagawa asked, looking past Akechi and into the kitchen, gaze almost scrutinizing as he studied the barista.

       Akechi shifted in his seat and tilted his head, very blatantly moving if only to draw the other man’s attention back to his form. He took a deep breath and chose to feign ignorance, despite knowing exactly what Kitagawa was suggesting.

       “What about her?” He asked.

       “Certainly, you cannot maintain a relationship with both of them,” Kitagawa said, despite the accusation of his words, his tone lacked judgement. Despite anticipating the implications of Kitagawa’s curiosity, Akechi not quell the rage boiling his blood, especially when the artist asked, “Does she know about Kurusu-kun?”

       As if Goro Akechi would become the type of womanizing abuser of man his father was.

       “Kitagawa,” Akechi said, tone a touch sharper than strictly necessary. He could feel himself falling into the role of merciless man his father would be proud of having raised. He paused for a long moment and carefully considered who he was speaking to. Kitagawa was not his enemy. He was not a threat. He and Akechi had the same goal, to protect Okumura. “You don’t meant to imply that I would treat Okumura as her ex-fiancé did, would you?”

       Kitagawa nodded and said, “She would not fault you to have found someone you truly care for.” Akechi was not so blind as to not acknowledge that the artist’s boldness was a direct result of his influence. The challenge in Kitagawa’s tone had been earned. Through more suffering than most men would ever know, Yusuke Kitagawa earned the right to voice his concerns, to question the motivation of those around him. And despite how angry Akechi was at the implications of Kitagawa’s questioning, the detective would not revoke his right to suspicion. 

       He forced his voice to lose its bite and colored his tone in resignation. Akechi’s entire being would bear the weight of another mask, a pained one if only to disguise his vexation and shield Kitagawa from his wrath.

       “Our circumstances are rather set in stone,” Akechi said, bowing his head, if only to hide the way his teeth ground together. Cloaking danger with despair and vice-versa was something he’d learned all too well in his years at Shido’s side. “I would not have it so her father would sell her off to the highest bidder.”

       “She would want you to be happy,” Kitagawa responded.

       The devastating truth of Akechi’s life was that he couldn’t be happy, though.Goro Akechi had renounced joy. He had renounced health. He had renounced hope — all of these things when he pledged his loyalty to his father, when the die was first cast in this pitiful game of his life. Every choice he made, he made knowing he would sacrifice the very things that made him more man than monster, those sacrifices that would bid him drink from the poisoned chalice of his father’s influence. Blood and bonds beckoned the cruelty that ran through his veins and Akechi could be very cruel indeed.

       A man as distorted as Goro Akechi didn’t deserve happiness.

       He didn’t need —

       He did not want — 

       He could not possibly deserve —

       “I could never be with Akira!” Akechi snapped.

       Only after he said this did he realize he had been too loud, when he bore witness to way Kitagawa visibly winced at the declaration, when he heard the clattering of dishes in the kitchen behind him. Akechi knew from how Kitagawa was looking past him, towards Akira. Akechi did not have to turn his back to understand that even if Akira had not heard a word of what they said before, that he had not missed Akechi’s very clear rejection of the idea of having anything to with Akira, period. 

       Akechi couldn’t speak — he couldn’t look. He and Akira had reached a peace of sorts and he had been so careless with it. Akechi had looked upon the force that stopped his hands from shaking and spat at it. The nature of their relationship no longer mattered. Akechi knew enough of men and women alike to believe that there were no words to soothe the wounds his declaration had wrought. If there were, he didn’t know if he would say them even if he knew them. 

       The detective could feel how this was setting into motion a number of events, he could feel the lingering threat of a new lot of turmoil in the air.

       This mistake was — Wait, was it a mistake? 

       He truly didn’t know.

       All Akechi did know was that if Akira walked out of his door now, it would be for the best.

       Akira cleared his throat from the kitchen and said,“Coffee’s ready but — I — think it’s best if I go.” He addressed Kitagawa then, who stood at hearing his name and walked out of Akechi’s line of sight. “Kitagawa, Let’s exchange chat IDs.”

       Akechi still couldn’t move. He knew he couldn’t resolve this. He knew he couldn’t apologize. After all, this had been what he wanted. He had wanted Akira to leave, for Akira to chose to go.

       For the first time in his life, he would have the proof he needed. Akechi would have someone in his godforsaken life chose to walk away not because he had given them no other option or that they had been taken from him. No, this would be the proof that the detective needed, the evidence that he truly was a monster.

       Something in his chest constricted ever so painfully.

       He couldn't catch his breath again. 

       And his hands were shaking.

       Yet, Akira would be safer this way. Akira had to be safer this way.

       It had not been Akechi’s intention, but now that it was out there in the universe, the guarantee that Akira would be protected kept his lips sealed shut.

       The knowledge of Akira’s safety forbid Akechi to call his name.

       So, Akechi only watched as Akira grabbed his clothes, his phone and walked towards the door.

       Akira looked back and Akechi averted his gaze when he felt those storms on him.

       “Goro —,” Akira said, but stopped himself. He corrected himself and it was all Akechi had in him not to wince when he spoke again, “Akechi, I’ll clean these clothes and get Mishima to return them to you.” Akira laughed, that soft laugh he so often used that Akechi was only just now realizing was fake. Why was he just realizing it was fake? Why had Akira been able to tear right through his defenses when he couldn’t scratch the surface of a delinquent barista who would ruin his own life all over again if only because he wanted to do the right thing? Then, Akira was speaking again, a farewell that served as a proverbial stake through Akechi’s chest. “Take care, okay?”

       And then, Akira was out the door, and Akechi still said nothing.

       Kitagawa excused himself a moment later. Akechi went to the kitchen and saw three coffee cups full of coffee. One black, another medium tone, and his (he knew it was his) was the lightest. 

       He poured them all down the drain.

       Afterward, he prepared himself to meet with Shido. And he made a careful mental note to not mention the boy who had snuck into the abandoned building after him.


	18. his countenance was unpresentable, untamed — undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was late afternoon when Shido summoned him once more, and this time Akechi could not refuse.

      It was late afternoon when he was summoned to the Diet building. The air in Masayoshi Shido’s office was stifling, the atmosphere foreboding. The glint in those eyes so similar to his own hidden behind a layer of glass was terrifying in its own right. Shido hands were steepled before him, elbows resting on his desk as he grinned at Akechi.

       If Goro Akechi believed in gods, he would have prayed. But his world was one of without salvation — the path he was treading was without light — ruin would await when it reached its darkened end. 

       The smile Shido wore would have shaken a normal man, with how much malice existed within its confines. But Akechi was far from ordinary, believing himself monstrous in his own right. By blood and exposure, he had become immune, In fact, it was one of the skills Akechi inherited from this being called his ‘father’ — the ability to violate an international symbol of peace and friendliness.

       Considering recent events, he supposed that he shared many qualities with Shido, as an entity existing opposite to amicability.

       He despised how it felt to acknowledge such a disgusting truth.

       “Akechi,” Shido addressed him, demanding the detective’s undivided attention, “Report.”

       Akechi stood across from where Shido sat. The desk, Shido lenses, and the masks the detective wore were the only things separating him from his father. He considered the fallibility of that armor against such a threat. After all, Akechi could already feel the ache in his bones from how his muscles tensed under Shido’s scrutinizing gaze.

       Nonetheless, he inhaled and spoke.

       From the threat against the Niijima sisters, to holding his own and earning the respect of Nakano and his men, and the list of demands Nakano presented him with to show to his supervisor, he spoke of his investigation into Kaneshiro.

       “Courtesies,” Akechi had called the list of demands, stifling a rehearsed laugh, having examined Nakano’s terms on route to Shido’s office. He followed it up, of course with a suggestion to test Nakano’s conviction and influence, by forcing him to discard Ushida and Harada. When asked why, Akechi lied, saying that they presumed him to having taken to the company of men and asked his father kindly or as kindly as possible to do him a favor that the right hook he’d thrown in Ushida’s face hadn’t and eliminate the source of the problem.

       In truth, he wanted Ushida to suffer for the distortion of Akira’s features.

       Shido grinned again, the edge of something wicked in the curve of his lips when he agreed to Akechi’s suggestion.

       “Anything for my son, of course.”

       It took everything in Akechi not to flinch at the expression. Shido’s easy concession to the request was telling enough. Somewhere along the line, the detective had misplayed and his father was simply awaiting an opening to wipe a piece of his off the chessboard.

       What piece would it be? 

       Would Akechi be able to suffer the loss?

       Despite these musings, Akechi responded with a bow, before presenting the rest of his findings. He suggested that Nakano would be easier to control, more fearful in his new leadership and willing to follow their commands which would become even more necessary as the election grew near. Kaneshiro’s inability to control the criminal underworld had become a liability. 

       A joint arrest of Kaneshiro between himself and Niijima would look good for both Shido and his supporters’ reputations. After all, Sae-san, however ignorant she was to Shido’s machinations, owed his influence a great deal in her ability to ascend as a woman in the SIU.

       “This concludes my findings, Shido-san,” Akechi said.

       “How convenient of you to leave out what reason you had to ignore me when I called upon you to report until this morning, Akechi-kun,” Shido said.

       “Shido — I.”

       “And I notice your hand is not wrapped, my son.Please, remove your glove and show me what damaged it sustained while punching a thug from the likes of Shibuya. As your father, is it not my position to provide you with proper medical care when it is required?”

       Akechi couldn’t breathe, especially when Shido stood and began to round the desk, watching as he carefully removed his glove to reveal no swelling, nor bruising.

       Akechi turned to face Shido then, who glared down at the detective.

       “Now, son, why would you lie to your father?”

       Akechi bowed, gaze locked on the floor beneath his feet.

       “A civilian intervened when they believed I was in trouble. I was able to orchestrate their escape and I spent last night on careful watch, to ensure that Nakano’s men did not seek reparations for such an untimely interruption.”

       “Idiot child,” Shido said. 

       Then, it became a blur. A whirlwind of Shido’s comments ringing in his ears as he stumbled from the first assault. “Wouldn’t I know your favor your left, Akechi?” Borderline disorientation despite all efforts to remain impenetrable against the force of Shido’s efforts to ‘decompress’ being enacted on his form. “And if they were to leak to the press that you were in cahoots with Shibuya’s criminal underworld?” Weak, weak, weak. It’s been drilled in his head many times before even as Shido taunts him, demanding him to remain steadfast even as he gloated when Akechi isn’t able to remain upright against the abuse. “You should have let them deal with the nosy brat as they saw fit.”

       Ungrateful, he was called.

       Ungrateful — it was Shido’s most common insults when Akechi was on the receiving end of his father’s rage. What kind of life did Akechi live that he had something to be grateful for, aside from the fragmented memories of his mother’s smile? Perhaps Mishima? Maybe, once upon a dream, Akira Kurusu — had things been different.

       Now, all he saw when he shut out the outside world and retreated into himself, was Akira’s hurt expression when he had excused himself from Akechi’s home that morning and the blood staining his teeth from a punch he shouldn’t have had to take. He saw the concern etched into Mishima’s features each and every time the young man was forced to wrench Akechi from the grasp of his own destructive behavior in the streets of Shinjuku. He saw the fear in Niijima’s eyes and the sadness in Haru’s. 

       He saw Yusuke, looking at him and thinking of him as a muse and trading chains and cages for Akira’s indescribable freedom.

       But for a moment, just a single moment, he considered that what Yusuke had said earlier about himself and Akira wasn’t a slight, that perhaps juxtaposition could be beautiful, too.

       And perhaps he could endure until he truly became the detective prince this world deserved. Perhaps, something beautiful could come from how he would rake his name and his father’s name through the mud.

       Perhaps, the ugliness of destruction could bring about beautiful creation. 

       Perhaps, people could change.

       Perhaps, making them see the truth, confessing his sins with his own mouth and forcing Masayoshi Shido to do the same would be enough.

       And just maybe he hadn’t lied when he said his sole interest was in uncovering the truth.

       This was simply the price he must pay for his sins. He would atone by withstanding Shido’s abuse, for what he has done to himself and those around him. All in the form of the damage his father would impart upon his body.

       Despite this, he believed no amount of penance could wash his bloody hands clean.

* * *

        The pain stretched to his very bones. His ribs ached and his breathing was shallow. Akechi held back a wince through his teeth every time someone bumped into him on his commute back home. His head was throbbing, Shido’s insults as he beat him still ringing in his ears.

       He knew there were things to do, in preparation for Kaneshiro’s arrest. He would need to meet with Niijima and call upon his resources within the police to coordinate a bust of this caliber. Yet, for now, it could wait.

       After all, Shido had done him the favor of clearing his schedule so that he could ‘ruminate over his mistakes.’ Rather, he would be recovering from the excessive abuse his ‘loving’ father had imparted upon him.

       As he entered his apartment, he mused that even his free time didn’t belong to him.

       Shido owned it all.

       Akechi often thought he had never been the sovereign of his life, of his body, of his mind, nor his heart. Certainly, he had chosen this path, the one that would destroy the very man who had taken everything from him, but since that moment, his free will only shone itself under very particular circumstances, where the odds could only fall in his favor. Otherwise, Akechi never thought of himself as his own god. Not really, not until Akira had pulled him from Crossroads and explained why he wouldn’t let Akechi be taken advantage of, until he realized his hands had stopped shaking in Akira’s presence.

       Akira Kurusu — he really screwed that one up, didn’t he?

       Akechi walked into his bathroom and unbuttoned his shirt.

       He couldn’t hide from it now, the ugly truth of the effect Akira Kurusu had on his life as he survey the damaged. He saw every mark as sign he had stood between Shido and those Akechi chose to protect. He would do it again, for Mishima, for the Niijimas, and for Akira.

       He had learned that truth as soon as the door shut behind Akira when he left his apartment that morning. 

       Akechi cared for Akira.

       Simply for being Akira.

       Akira appealed to the heart in Akechi, much like Mishima did, but somehow his influence became exacerbated. Was it because Akira knew everything but this? And now that the damage was so apparent upon his skin, that Akira could see it if Akechi simply let him. 

       Would he allow the man who knew everything about Goro Akechi to be blind to this? Could he live with that?

       Given that Akira already knew too much and suspicion that rest in Shido’s gaze, perhaps it was truly best that he maintain distance from Akira. Perhaps Akechi could rationalized that he was protecting those he cared for now, and maybe he could be proud of that, despite the recurring vision of the barista’s pained expression flitting through his already throbbing head.

       He wondered if the noble Akira — had he remained here — would have urged Akechi to rest and treated his wounds, if he would have been inspired to be as gentle as Akechi had been when wrapping his hand. 

       Would rage glint behind those lenses in the storms of his eyes? Would confusion cloud his gaze? Or worse, would judgement be cast in the storms behind his glasses? After all, Akechi lied — would showing this break what little confidence Akira had placed in him, his word that he would stop Shido if it came down to it.

       Honestly, Akechi didn’t know why he mused. After all, in the short time they’ve known each other, Akira had always surprised him.

* * *

       Older medicine would dictate he wrap his abdomen, but this was not the first nor last time Akechi was faced with the potential of broken or cracked ribs. Compression could lead to more damage, so he simply allowed himself the luxury of the narcotics in his cabinets, pain killers of a particularly high prescription value, to dull the ache in his bones. He dry swallowed them and turned on his heel, disrobing with all the grace capable of someone in his state. The nearest article of clothing to replace his shirt was his loose red hoodie, the one he normally goes out in.

       He thought about lying down, but knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up for a while if he did, thus he decided against staying prone.

       Pulling on white jeans proved more difficult than he originally anticipated and he winced, tears burning at the edges of his eyes as he donned the article of clothing. He went back into the washroom, and took a final glance at himself in the mirror.

       This was a bad idea. He knew it. He knew it in the way that he’d known his fate after deciding to lead his father to ruin.

       His hands grasped the edges of the sink before him. He looked into eyes that bore the disguised signs of exhaustion.

       He thought of everything that could go wrong if he were to step outside of his door tonight, of every conceivable avenue he could take that would lead to his own destruction. _Self-destruction_ , he corrected himself. Had he not chosen this life? Couldn’t he choose how it ended? 

       Was it really too late to turn the tides in his favor? Or would he drown in the river of blood that Shido left in his wake?

       Nonetheless, he walked out the door.

       Akechi avoided Crossroads like the plague, out of fear that he’d run into into Akira. The painkillers were taking effect, seeing as he already felt as if he could breathe a little easier, despite the polluted air of Shinjuku filling his lungs.

       It was too easy for him to fall into the habits he normally indulged in when night fell and he was unoccupied in Tokyo. Consciously, Akechi knew the dangers of mixing alcohol with pain medication, but he was compelled to ignore the possible risks.

       Perhaps he shouldn’t have.

       Akechi was outside Crossroads when he started to feel uneasy, his gait faltering. In fact, he hadn’t known how long he’d been lingering outside of the bar. He swallowed hard and nearly dropped his phone three times before he had the device in a steady grip before him. His vision was blurred and his fingers moved slowly, barely controlled as he typed the name of his closest confidant. 

       The voice on the other line answers quickly, and Akechi’s coherent enough to recognize the concern in his voice. “Akechi — where are you?”

       He wondered if he should feel shame — because Mishima really didn’t have to ask. Part of him thought he imagined the sounds of shuffling and the click of Mishima’s window.

       “Ous — side …. Cross — rohhs,” Akechi tried to say, but the words came out long and disjointed.

       “Stay where you are, please,” Mishima said over the line. Akechi ducked his head, hiding himself from view of the passersby with the bill of his hat. “Akechi, please — please, don’t hang up.”

       His phone fell from the grasp of his hand, clattering to the group beneath his feet shortly after. It was by the time Mishima’s voice became incoherent over the line, the blood rushing through his veins drowning out all other sounds. He thought about crouching to retrieve the device, but didn’t think he would be able to get back up if he did so.

       He couldn’t tell how much time passed before green and white sneakers invaded his downcast vision, followed shortly by a pale pallor and dark hair. 

       _Akira? — No, Mishima._

       Mishima has crouched to pick up Akechi’s phone before he pocketed it, bringing both hands to Akechi’s opposing arms. His grasp was light. He was touching Akechi, though. The burning of his skin where Mishima’s fingertips pressed the cloth against his flesh allowed him to know so much.

       “Akechi,” Mishima said, and the detective caught his name, red eyes flashing to Mishima’s features rather than the dirty road beneath his feet. Mishima said something else then, but Akechi couldn’t make it out. He hardly noticed the hand reaching past him, the gentle pressure against the back of his head, as he attempted to pull himself upright.

       Akechi was back in his apartment, leaning heavily on Mishima, before he realized he was moving at all.

       Mishima said something else, then. He was frowning, the edge of his teeth worrying his lower lip. At that moment, Akechi didn’t care what words were coming out of Mishima’s mouth. He just didn’t like the look on Mishima’s face.

       He would give Mishima anything to remove that expression from his face. Akechi would do anything to stop disappointing the people who foolishly cared for him. 

       And this path, this mindset of sacrifice — was muddled by intoxication. Surely, Akechi would not do something that could irrevocably rewrite the nature of Yuuki Mishima’s presence in his life.

       It was a flash of action in which he pulled Mishima towards him, pressing his mouth against the other man’s. It was something to fill the hollow in his bones, something to offer Mishima in recompense for the time he’s wasted, the investment he’s made in a broken man. Mishima immediately reciprocated and something about it just felt so wrong that it sobered Akechi — however minutely. 

       There was no fight and Akechi knew he was like his father, taking — always taking — taking advantage of the influence he has someone else’s life. And this wasn’t just someone, this was Mishima, arguably the most important person in his life — Mishima, who’s dark hair and pale pallor has been swimming in his vision since he first came to Akechi’s rescue. It’s strange, he thought, how they somehow both seemed to push away from each other at the same time.

       “I — sorry,” Akechi said, the edges of his vision darkening. And the last thing he heard was his name before everything went dark.

* * *

* * *

        Describing Akechi was impossible. Goro Akechi, after all, was more than a hero to Mishima. He was a friend, a friend Mishima so deeply admired and owed so much to, that the former volleyball player snuck out his window late at night, if only to come to the rescue of man who once saved him.

       Mishima didn’t recognize the man before him.

       He recognized the stark red hooded pullover, though. 

       It was the one Akira had loaned Mishima in their first year when the two got stuck in Akihabara in a freak rainstorm. Akira had ducked under an overhang, stripped down to his t-shirt and retrieved his umbrella from him bag before Mishima could protest.

       While Mishima was significantly soggier than Akira, seeing as two people couldn’t really fit underneath one umbrella, he was certain he would have gotten sick the next day if not for his friend’s intervention.

       Mishima had resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he had tried to return it, if only for Akira to tell him to, “Keep it. You might need it someday.”

       He had saved it for a rainy day, alright, the day he was first called to retrieve Akechi from the small bar Crossroads on the streets of Shinjuku. He had learned Akechi was in trouble and that he was the person that Akechi had told them to call.Of course, Akira had moved back to his hometown by then and the problematic volleyball coach Kamoshida had been convicted but that pullover remained — saved for a rainy day — indeed.

       Mishima had made it to Crossroads as quickly as public transportation allowed and pulled the bright red hoodie over the detective’s head. His hands and words were tentative, reassuring, as he led the man back to his apartment. He had allowed the pullover to remain in Akechi’s possession ever since.

       He always wondered if Akechi could hear the silent command that he should, like Akira said to him, “Save it for a rainy day.”

This time, Akechi was wearing the red pullover, and he wasn’t looking at him. The detective didn’t seem to hear him either. Mishima had been in full blown panic by the time he made it to the front of Crossroads, only to see Akechi slouched against the wall, hands shaking, eyes glued to the floor beneath him.

       He breathed a silent relief when he spotted the phone between Akechi’s feet.

       He stood before Akechi and leaned down so that his face entered the other man’s line of sight. Mishima has dealt with this before — trauma. He assumed it was trauma, having born witness to the reflection of his own haunted gaze before. That, and the bits and pieces of information he had picked up from the first time Akechi had called for him. Despite the detective’s insistence he disregard anything that he said while under the influence, Mishima couldn’t forget — especially when Akechi had mentioned how he’d been ‘punished.’

       Nonetheless, he crouched before Akechi and retrieved his phone, stuffing it in his own pocket. Mishima sighed, feeling the weight of Akechi’s suffering pulling his mouth into a frown. He stood to his full height and said Akechi’s name. Lifeless red eyes raised to meet his gaze and slowly but surely the detective is pulling himself upright. Mishima quickly raised his hand to reach behind the detective’s head to prevent it from falling too hard against the wall he was leaned against.

       “Akechi — I’ll get you home, just please, tell me what happened.” Mishima said, only to be met with silence. He resigned himself to taking Akechi home, realizing he would gain no answers and knowing it was far beyond safe to remain lingering in Shinjuku with a half conscious man on his arm.

       It was a tedious process, but eventually, Mishima closed the door to Akechi’s apartment behind them.

       “Akechi —,” he said then, hoping that the man was a little more alert than before. A nervous habit had his teeth worrying his lower lip. “Please, tell me what’s happened.

       Just as Akechi was impossible to describe, what happened next was impossible to quantify. It was Akechi’s mouth mirroring the frown pulling at his own before fingers that were normally covered by gloved grasping at the fabric of shirt. Then, Akechi was falling into him, pressing his mouth against Mishima’s own. 

       The shock, the heat of the moment has him leaning into the kiss. A million thoughts race through his head. Is this what Akechi wants? Will this provide him with comfort? Was Akechi even capable of making that choice for himself right now?

       Mishima thought of Akira, his best friend, who gave everyone a chance to speak — allowed everyone every chance to have a safe place — to be of sound mind before making a choice. Mishima, just as much as he wanted to be like Akechi, wanted to be like Akira. 

       He wrenched himself out of Akechi’s grasp in tandem with the other man pushing him away.

       “I’m sorry —,” Akechi said, as he tried to stand straight, a look of horror in his eyes. Mishima imagined his own eyes mirrored those red hues.

       “Akechi,” Mishima said. In response, Akechi seemed to blink once, twice, and then the man fell completely limp in his arms.

* * *

        Mishima finding himself with an unconscious detective in a small clinic in the back alleys of Yongen-Jaya was unexpected, but not unheard of. 

       After particularly rough _practices_ during his first year, Akira would coax him into visiting Dr. Takemi to ensure that he hadn’t sustained any permanent damage. He was thankful for the many braces, painkillers, and supplements she’d prescribed him at the time. Mishima didn’t know how he would have survived until Akechi’s timely intervention, otherwise.

       So finding himself in Dr. Takemi’s exam room wasn’t uncommon, but being accompanied by an unconscious detective was. Takemi had made him wait outside during a preliminary examination, and he found himself petting the local stray, Morgana — in hopes that the cat would somehow soothe his nerves.

       Morgana, of course, had scurried away when Dr. Takemi came outside to retrieve him.

       “How is he?” Mishima asked, eyes straying from the prone form of one of his closest friends to the doctor.

       “Mishima, you know as well as I that I can’t disclose patient information,” Dr. Takemi said, “I’ve already gone too far in not contacting his next of kin — and I can see Akira’s been a bad influence on you, considering you’re trying to get me to file him as a Yamada Tarō.”

       “He wouldn’t want to worry his father,” Mishima said, earnest and honest, despite the lingering apprehension in his gut. Akechi’s father, for all Mishima knew, could be the very reason Akechi was in this state. “Uh — I just. This could look bad.”

       “Calm down, kitten,” She dismissed his concerns, adding, “You won’t ever find me wanting the press getting word of me treating Goro Akechi. I’ve got a bad reputation, as is.”

       “Please, Takemi-san,” Mishima pleaded.

       She frowned and Mishima could hear the door to her clinic open. She left Mishima with Akechi and was gone for several long minutes as Mishima watched the shallow, yet steady rise and fall of the detective’s chest, the drip of the fluid in an IV in the man’s arm, the tubes gently resting in his nose. He did his best to ignore how Akechi’s sides were wrapped loosely, stuffed with cold compresses. After all, letting his thoughts linger on the damage beneath the gauze reminded him too much of Kamoshida.

       When Dr. Takemi returned, it was with Akira in tow.

       “Now, my assistant,” She said emphatically, not looking at Mishima, “let me update you with the status of our current patient.”

       Akira didn’t immediately respond. Mishima could see his gaze locked on the prone form of Akechi. Akira swallowed hard and seemed to force himself to meet Takemi’s gaze.

       “Okay —,” He replied, nodding his head once.

       “Our patient,” Takemi said, “Yamada Tarō, is suffering from a number of ailments. One is dehydration. And I don’t need a toxicology report to know he’s been doing blow and drinking. You can smell it on his breath and a preliminary examination revealed that his nose was bleeding earlier. But, what has me concerned most is that he’s received multiple traumas.” She paused, looking from Akechi’s prone form and then to Akira once more. “They appear to be only a few hours old.”

       “Did you call the cops?” Akira immediately asked.

       “No,” Takemi said with a sigh, “I should report this to the authorities, but given he’s unconscious and the detective prince himself, he might be in a position where reporting whatever abuse he’s suffering may not be in his best interest.”

       “Abuse?” Akira asked, as his gaze found Mishima’s. The former volleyball player could see the accusation in his Akira’s eyes, the glint of something akin to betrayal behind those lenses. For a moment, Mishima was struck by how this must appear. That he, one who once experienced physical abuse himself, would turn a blind eye to the suffering of the man who had freed him from his abuser.

       His eyes stung, but Mishima refused to cry. Guilt already gnawed at his heart, but he had known, even he had said something, even if he had considered the implications of Akechi’s intoxicated confessions, the detective would not have come to him. If anything, Akechi would have pushed him away. And Mishima, for as strong as he was from knowing Akechi, from growing with Akira — could not change Akechi. He couldn’t save him, especially if Akechi didn’t want to be saved.

       Akira’s attention was directed to the doctor as Takemi continued.

       “If he was out after taking a beating like this,” Takemi said, “It’s safe to say this wasn’t the first time. That being said, he must have some connection to the medical world. This is the work of mixing alcohol with some heavy duty narcotics.”

       “Goro —,” Akira said, quietly, so quietly that Mishima hardly heard him. He probably would have missed it if not for the way his eyes had been glued to Akira’s expression since he entered the room. He swallowed hard and felt like he was intruding, based on the way Akira’s eyes seemed to look past him to the man they both knew laying unconscious before them.

       “Any ideas, guinea pig?” Takemi asked, directing Akira’s attention once more to herself rather than the environment. Mishima couldn’t help but notice that she still hadn’t acknowledged that he was still in the room. Despite any abrasive appearances, he could only assume she wanted him to hear this, too.

       Akira’s gaze hardened as he turned back to Dr. Takemi. He nodded.

       “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Akira said, pushing his glasses back up his face, as if to further conceal his eyes, “but internal bleeding and broken ribs are a possibility. And if this isn’t the first time, he might need to be checked to see if past injuries haven’t healed properly.” 

       Takemi nodded and prompted him, “Continue.”

       “When he’s awake, you’ll need to take an X-ray,” Akira let something like a resigned laugh escape him and added, “Whether he likes it or not…”

       Takemi took over from there. Mishima was left wondering whether she cut Akira off for personal or professional reasons. Even Mishima was not so blind as to realize that Akira was definitely having some sort of reaction to seeing Akechi in this state. He knew they were civil, friends, even — given Akechi’s word and their time spent as a group in LeBlanc but seeing the pain in Akira’s gaze, however veiled, shook something within Mishima. 

       “He’ll need to be kept under observation,” Takemi said, “while I await results of the blood sample I took. At the moment, he seems stable enough.”

       Watching Akira seem to consider Takemi’s words was interesting, because the entirety of his focus seemed locked on Akechi. Nothing more, nothing less.

       “Can I —?” Akira asked.

       Dr. Takemi seemed to know what he was asking without him having to finish his statement. “Since I’ll need to be away, continue to monitor his vitals — let me know if he wakes up.” She turned to leave, before looking over her shoulder, a small smile gracing her lips. “Be a good assistant, Akira.”

       “Thanks, Tae. I owe you.” Akira said.

       “Don’t hold your breath,” Takemi teased. “I have another clinical trial coming up,” She added, and then she walked out the door.

       Akira turned his attention to Mishima, then. Mishima noticed the curve of his mouth, suspiciously absent only moments before. He wondered how many times Akira smiled for his sake. It made him think Akechi must always be doing the same, especially if he was being abused.

       Maybe, he really didn’t know Akira and nor Akechi as well as he thought.

       “You should go home, Yuuki,” Akira said. He nodded, the gesture reassuring in a way it had been when Akira first brought Mishima to Dr. Takemi’s clinic. “I can look after him for a while. — I’ll keep you updated.”

       Mishima looked at his phone, and noticed how late it really was. He considered asking how Akira can planned on making it to school the following day, but didn’t, instead preemptively deciding to take extra care in paying attention in class as recompense for what Akira was doing for him.

       “Yeah, just, take care — okay?” Mishima said as he stood.

       “You too, okay,” Akira said more than asked, “Message me when you make it home.”

       Mishima, once outside the doors of Takemi’s clinic, was only then struck by the fact that Goro Akechi, in his inebriated state, had kissed him.

       A meaningless huff of amusement parted his lips as laughter began to rock his form. Lungs heaved as the innocent of snickering turned dark, and before he knew it, laughter had made the inevitable transition into sobbing.

       Akira wouldn’t be the only one losing sleep tonight. 

* * *

* * *

       Akechi awoke to an unfamiliar environment. The surface beneath him felt stiff and his eyes opened only for his vision to stolen by bright fluorescents lights. He shut them again immediately, compelled to remain still and unnoticed for as long as he could, in case someone else occupied the room. Akechi attributed the defense mechanism to the lingering effects of the drugs in his system, lest he’d given himself completely to the paranoia of Shido’s lingering threats, the suspicion in his father’s gaze.

       The detective heard the sound of feet shuffling, an indicator of slight movement. It was also surprisingly simple to acknowledge the sound of breath that was not his own.

       The one complication here was that Akechi had no idea where he was, nor did he know who was with him. After what felt like several long moments, though it was likely only seconds, did he feel the press of fingertips against his wrist. He wrenched his arm from the grasp, maroon eyes widening to look upon his companion.

       Of course, it would be Akira Kurusu.

       He would never admit that the breath that escaped him was one of relief, rather than trepidation at his discovery.

       “Goro—?” Akira asked, voice soft — gentle. The sound made Akechi feel sick. He became suddenly aware of the drip in his arm, the gauze around his chest and the tubes resting in his nose. He went and got himself hospitalized. And of course, Akira Kurusu was there. Of course, he had to know.

       “Ah — Aki,” He tries, but his throat is dry, too dry.

       “Goro,” He said again and something about how earnest he was, how he came closer to Akechi instead of away from him made Akechi feel tears sting at the corners of his eyes, or maybe that’s just the pain throbbing to his bones. It’s hard to tell. “Hey, hey. Are you okay?”

       “Wa — er,” Akira seemed to understand and gave him water.

       The two were silent for a while — he wondered if Akira was to alert a physician. Certainly, after gathering himself, Akechi had deduced he was in some sort of clinic. He recognized it, something about it. 

       Ahh, he had once met Mishima here, to document his injuries. Akechi had been in and out before the doctor arrived back from some house call. He’d never laid eyes on Takemi, but it seem she must have laid eyes on him. All of him, judging by his state of undress. He was covered by loose gauze the weight of lukewarm compresses hurt more than he was willing to admit.

       He didn’t know what to say. How could he? It’s all a blur. But he’s conscious. So Mishima must have been with him at some point. He must have arrived. Who else would he have called? How else would he have ended up here? He vaguely remembered pale skin and dark hair. Perhaps he was mistaken. Maybe Akira had found him.

       Either way, before he’d lost himself — he had this conversation with himself, the implications of if Akira were to learn of his circumstances. Akira seeing the truth was a worst case scenario. 

       “You’re aware —” He said, softly, even as he tried to raise himself to his elbows — only to wince. Akira’s applied gentle pressure to his shoulders, a silent command to stay still, to stay down. Akechi huffed, but complies. He looked away, then back. “You know — don’t you?”

       “Akira, I’m sure you were about to come get me,” A woman said, entering the room. “How’s our patient?” Dr. Takemi was an image of death. Dark hair, dark eyes, and dark clothing existing as a stark contrast to her immaculate white lab coat. Catching sight of her shoes made him wince in sympathy. There was certainly no way she was comfortable, but if she was going for giving off the impression that she was not to be trifled with, she had certainly succeeded.

       And if Mishima trusted her — well.

       “Stable,” Akira replied, interrupting Akechi’s train of thought. “He just regained consciousness.”

       “Good,” She replied, coming over to Akechi, looking down at him, a small curve of her lips. “Akira, why don’t you step out? I’ll take it from here.”

       “Tae, I —,” Akira protested.

       “Guinea pig,” Takemi insisted. “Shouldn’t you tell kitten he’s awake?”

       Akira didn’t respond, except to look at Akechi and nod once. Admittedly, the detective was surprised. Akira didn’t seem like to type to submit. He knew he had broken something between them, something he hadn’t even known was there until it was gone, that morning, but its absence was strikingly clear now.

       Like Akira, Akechi didn’t protest as the other man gathered his things as he prepared to leave.

       Instead he asked a pretty obvious question. 

       “Guinea pig? — Kitten?”

       Takemi hushed him and Akira walked to the door.

       “I’ll be back,” Akira assured them both, before slipping out of the room.

       “Little prince, I trust you’ll be a good patient.”

* * *

       There was poking and prodding until the wee hours of the morning, a replacement of cold compresses, and very low dosage narcotics that Akechi refused, if only to prove to Dr. Takemi who had implied more than once since they were left alone that Akechi seemed like an addict.

       Goro Akechi — an addict. 

       Honestly, he sometimes wondered the same.

       For the detective, it was all just a question of what he was addicted to.

       He imagined, given his current state, that it must be self destruction.

       When he was forced to undergo an X-Ray in a small room in the back of Takemi’s clinic, he arched a brow at the admittedly archaic device. 

       “When you’re blackballed, you make do,” Takemi had explained.

       He then proceeded to ask what happened, to which the doctor had surprisingly little to say. As recompense, he asked her if the accusations were unjust. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, claiming that she didn’t need a knight in shining armor — noting that his was looking a little rusty. She mentioned that he should take better care of himself for the sake of a certain kitten and a guinea pig of hers.

       “Kitten and guinea pig?” He asked again, when they returned to the exam room.

       “Yuuki and Akira, prince,” She responded.

       Of course, he understood that much, but the real question of what earned them said nicknames went unanswered. Had Mishima suffered so much that their familiarity went beyond that of surnames and given names alone? Had Goro not done enough? And what of Akira? A simple assistant did not merit such intimacy.

       “Ahh,” Akechi responded, instead of pressuring further, “I’ll take note.”

       “You better,” Takemi said, even as Akechi winced, as he donned the red pullover to veil the damage to his abdomen. She sighed, “Now, don’t let me see you again like that, okay?”

       “I’ll do what I can,” Akechi replied, after a brief pause. He couldn’t agree, because if something were to happen, he might need Takemi’s assistance. Since Mishima trusted her, he could only assume she would remain quiet, especially since she noted she had him in her patient records as a Yamada Tarō instead of his given name.

       What he said wasn’t entirely untrue, though, for it wasn’t as if he was itching for another meeting with Shido in the near future.

       “That’s what we all do,” Takemi countered, instead of letting his noncommittal response slide. “If you’re really kitten’s hero — you’ll do better.”

       “I’ll do what I must.”

       “Sounds like something I’d say,” Takemi said, and despite Akechi swearing he saw melancholy in the small smile pulling at her lips, he said nothing.. “— Come back here if you need to, little prince,” She offered. “If you’re anything like Akira’s other friends, I’ve got a feeling this isn’t the last of the trouble you’ll see.”

       Akechi couldn’t help the sardonic laugh that escaped his lips, even as he stood outside of Takemi’s clinic, the neighborhood stray cat winding between his feet.

       She didn’t know the half of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally, I do most of my notes at the beginning but this whole chapter was just *sighs heavily*. I don't know how I really feel about how this one turned out but let me know if it's a hit or a miss because I cannot even begin to tell you how many hours I slaved over this one.
> 
> As always, hit me up in the comments or on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments with your thoughts! I feel like I could really use some feedback on this chapter.


	19. tip the scales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, Akira has deprived Akechi of his words. He rendered Akechi’s silver tongue useless. Akechi might have been standing there, looking down at Akira, but what weighed more upon the scales was often considered far more important that its elevated counterpart.

      As he walked toward the station, intent on catching the first train home, he ran into Akira. Who, true to his word, seemed to be heading toward Tae’s clinic.

      The other man’s claim of _I’ll be back_ , rang in Akechi’s ears.

      He stopped in his tracks when Akira stepped before him, blocking his path. Admittedly, Akechi found himself torn between growling something cruel through gritted teeth and conceding to whatever Akira might beg of him.

      He was tired and sore, though, so he said nothing.

      Akira asked, “She’s letting you go?”

      Akechi was silent for a moment, eyes looking past Akira towards the station. He was not foolish. He knew the trains had stopped running hours ago and it would be hours more before they started again. A few minutes of humoring Akira wouldn’t truly harm him, right? “Considering I’m a Yamada Taro,” Akechi said, “There’s not much she can do to keep me. I am,” He paused, “— of sound mind.”

      “Are you, though?” Akira responded, not missing a beat.

      Akechi’s eyes narrowed and his mouth fell into a thin line. He obviously was mistaken in believing speaking to Akira would be a simple way to pass the time. Consciously, Akechi was aware that Akira knew of his circumstances, but he refused to believe that gave the man any right to cast judgement on him. 

      For what right did Akira have to stand in Akechi’s way? What right did Akira have to question Akechi’s life? What right did he have to confront him?

      Most of all, what right did Akira have to look hurt when Akechi was the one who was beaten within an inch of his life on this very day?

      Akechi released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, features contorting as he winced at the mere act of breathing.

      “I don’t have time for this, Kurusu,” Akechi said.

      Akira remained unfazed, despite the barely discernible widening of the grey of his eyes. He looked away, gaze trailing over their surroundings. Akechi kept his eyes trained on Akira and waited but a moment before taking a step forward. The action seemed to capture Akira’s attention, as he finally looked at Akechi, but Akira didn’t move out the detective’s path.

      It infuriated Akechi, but not as much as the raindrop that grazed his palm, nor the one that directlybeneath his left eye when he looked at the sky. The moon was obscured, as were the the stars, by the angry clouds that were now pelting himself and Akira with rain.

      There was a hand on his arm before Akechi realized it, the press of fingers against the fabric of the red hoodie didn’t burn his skin as it had before. Akechi was struck by the thought of fire, of burning. Had his skin burned?A vision of Mishima flashed in his mind, one he quickly rid himself of, instead focusing on the pressure, gentle as it was insistent on guiding him.

      “C’mon, I still have the key to Leblanc,” Akira beckoned, leading him to the small cafe. “Waiting for a train in this weather will cause you more harm than good.”

      “Kurusu, I cannot possibly —,” Akechi protested, if only to be interrupted by Akira opening the door to Leblanc and urging him inside.

      “You need to rest —,” Akira said, back turned to Akechi as he locked the door to the cafe. His shoulders slouched and Akechi could more see than hear him sigh, “when Mishima — back when Kamoshida…” Akira turned around then, facing Akechi. “ — He stayed here sometimes, when he couldn’t get home, when he didn’t want to go home.”

      Akechi didn’t linger on the implications of Akira’s statement. Certainly, the teachers and the parents knew about Kamoshida’s abuse, but the detective had never really considered what it meant to Mishima to have the people in his life that were supposed to protect him abandon him.

      Akechi never had anyone to rely on, even when his father had picked him up from the orphanage he ended up at after his mother died. By then, Akechi had already learned he could only count on himself.

      Mishima, on the other hand, had learned that the people he loved the most could cause him the most pain and that they could look the other way when he needed them most. Perhaps that was why Mishima was so taken with Akechi, that he devoted himself so completely to the cause of Tokyo’s very own Robin Hood. 

      It made Akechi feel like a fraud. 

      Worse, it made him sick.

      Akira had been the only one there for Mishima when he needed him most.

      He was left wondering how they both hadn’t been broken by their circumstances.

      “Is this where you were,” Akechi asked, “when Takemi sent you out?”

      “Yeah,” Akira confirmed, shrugging his shoulders, “it reminded me a lot of first year.”

      He then walked past Akechi toward the stairs, the sparse lighting from outside the only illumination in the cafe. Akira stopped halfway up the stairs and nodded at Akechi, a indicator that he should follow him. With nothing else to do, he followed Akira’s lead. The room was brighter than the cafe, Akira having turned on the lights when he entered the space.

      Akechi faintly recognized the sound of scratching, the same scratching he heard the first time he was in LeBlanc’s attic, and a quick glance toward the window confirmed his suspicions. Morgana, the local stray was pawing at the glass, a request for entry that nearly caused Akechi to smile. 

      Akira grabbed a towel out of an abused cardboard box on one of the shelves that populated the walls of the attic and opened the window just enough so that Morgana could slip in, capturing the cat within the towel to dry him off.

      Akira turned to Akechi once he finished his task, releasing the cat from his grasp.His eyes were on Akechi once more, as he sat on the edge of what functioned as a bed, though it was actually a futon carefully balanced on crates. 

      Where these really Akira’s lodgings for his first year?

      The thought made Akechi frowned, gaze on the floor beneath his feet.

      “He likes you, you know,” Akira said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

      “Ah, is that so?” Akechi replied, unsure exactly who Akira was referring it. It could be Morgana, the stray, who seemed to have taken to winding himself around Akechi’s legs. It could be Mishima, the man he could barely recall coming into contact with that night, or it could very well be himself, standing across the room, looking at him with the same eyes that he had when they first met.

      Akechi sighed and tentatively approached Akira, only actively wincing once as he sat beside the other man. The cat followed, jumping on the bed next to him and crawling in his lap. At that, Akechi did grin, looking towards Akira.

      The small grin he was met with in response reminded Akechi of the near wicked smile Akira had flashed him in the warehouse — the promise of his strength, of the faith — however misplaced —that he had in Akechi.

      He noted how the bruising where Akira was injured was disguised and there was something slightly reassuring about how even men like Kurusu hid their damage.

      He caught himself nearly raising his hand, as if he planned on touching where that thug had punched Akira.

      Akechi turned away, hand dropping back to his lap, occupying itself with soothing Morgana — or rather — using Morgana to soothe himself.

      “It was not my intention to worry you, Kurusu,” Akechi said, quietly.

      “Yeah,” Akira said, a resigned sort of laugh getting caught in his throat, “you made it pretty clear that you don’t want me around.”

      “I —,” Akechi said, turning sharply, ribs protesting at the haste in which he moved. He swallowed the whimper that threatened to escape him. Akechi could take the pain, but he was learning or rather —accepting — that he didn’t like causing it. Wasn’t that why he didn’t let anyone close in the first place? Was he was afraid of hurting them, like he’d been hurt? “I — believe I misspoke,” Akechi clarified.

      Part of the detective was convinced the words coming out of his own mouth were lies, another part was sure these were the truest ones he had spoken in a very long time. Another part swam in uncertainty because how he could really know one way or the other, with all the masks he wore?

      He could hardly recall what his own face looked like, let alone what his voice sounded like when he was speaking from whatever heart remained in his chest.

      “What did you mean, then, Akechi?” Akira asked.

      “Goro —,” Akechi found himself saying, or rather correcting Akira. “Call me by my name, Akira,” He demanded, “You were so insistent that I allowed it —,” He sighed, gaze flighty until it settled on Akira’s eyes. “I need you to call me by my name.”

      Akechi could see the question in Akira’s eyes, but the other man didn’t protest. Instead, he seemed to relax, ever so slightly. Akechi wondered what his own features looked like, if his eyes were showing the same surprise reflected in Akira’s. 

      After all, if asked to explain the sudden request, Akechi wasn’t sure if he’d be able to. He just felt like the truth was always so much closer to the surface when Akira said his name.

      “Goro —,” Akria amended, “what did you mean?”

      A surge of pain shot up Akechi’s spine. He wasn’t sure if it was from his injuries or the phantom blade of vulnerability he was stabbing himself with.

      “Kitagawa-kun —,” Akechi began, “implied that I was being unfaithful to Okumura.” This explanation was surely sufficient, but he felt compelled to expand. He normally rehearsed for these types of conversations. Preplanned heart to hearts were his forte, but considering the recipient — Akira had an awful habit of flipping the script — Akechi was forced to be honest. Thus, Akechi found himself rambling, over-explaining, “Considering our apparent state of undress and the fact that he had yet to meet you, I can understand how he got the impression,” Akechi wondered if Morgana could sense his anxiety, at with what haste that the cat crawled from his lap to Akira’s. “I — it felt like an accusation, a comparison between myself and — my father. Despite the state of our nonnegotiable arrangements, I swear I would never hide a potential relationship from Okumura.”

      “So,” Akira said, the slight tilt of his head telling enough that he was considering Akechi’s explanation. The curve of his mouth was slightly unnerving when he spoke. “Kitagawa thought that you were having an affair with me?”

      Akechi did his very best not to berate Akira for appearing amused at the thought.

      “Yes,” He confirmed.

      “And that’s what upset you?” Akira asked.

      Then, Akechi arched a brow. He thought that much was understood, but unfortunately, when confronted directly with the question, the answer wasn’t as entirely black and white as he had first believed it to be.

      “It was more the implication that I would behave as my father has,” Akechi replied.

      “You really think that’s what Kitagawa meant?” Akira pressed.

      “At the time,” Akechi sighed and conceded,“I could not see it any other way.”

      “But there’s no way he would know what kind of man your father is, right?” Akira asked, brow furrowing. “All he knows is what you show him, which isn’t very much.” Akira paused and Akechi didn’t miss how his expression briefly wavered, as if he were resisting the urge to scowl. If that was the case, his efforts were marginally successful, the thin line of Akira’s mouth only falling minutely as he continued. “The only reason I know about Shido is because I stood in the way of one of his conquests.”

      “Akira—,” Akechi said.

      “I’m not finished,” Akira interrupted, tone sharper than Akechi’s ever heard it. “I’ve known you for what? A month, maybe more?” Akechi recognized this tone, how concern was what made the edges of his words cut like glass. He wasn’t angry — Akechi knew he wasn’t. He knew Akira wasn’t angry like he knew he hadn’t been when he shot the thug that laid a hand on him the first time he’d faced Kaneshiro’s men. Akira was scared — and he had every right to be. “And I know more about your life than your real friends, the ones that have been around for years.”

      Akechi was speechless. Akira constantly usurped any and all of Akechi’s anticipated responses. Akira didn’t behave as society ordained he should. He was a man who could raise the stakes without wavering, who could calm storms with a look and a word. 

      Akira Kurusu was a force to be reckoned with.

      And it seemed he chose, of all people, Goro Akechi to challenge.

      Or perhaps, it was Goro Akechi who he chose to stand by.

      “Please,” Akechi said, a plea for what, he wasn’t sure.

      “Goro, no.” Akira didn’t back down. “I can’t be the only one to have ever called you by your given name if you were to die tomorrow.” Akechi fought the urge to flinch. He’d taken more verbal beatings than this and remained unmoved, but knowing Akira cared, that this mattered to him, however foolish the notion was, shook something within Akechi.

      “I —” Akechi said, “You ask something of which you cannot understand.”

      He only superficially noted how Morgana was nowhere to be seen, though he feels the scarce touch of warmth against his back. Animals — how strange it was that they could read humans so well.

      “You could have died, tonight,” Akira continued. “If Mishima hadn’t have shown up, if Tae hadn’t seen to you, you could be dead, right now,” He sighed, and a glance at him showed how exhausted he appeared, like he hadn’t meant to say all of this, that he hadn’t really prepared to confront Akechi like this. Perhaps Akechi could take comfort in that, that Akira wasn’t on top of his game when it came to him, too. But, there was no comfort to be had, not when Akira asked him, “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

      “It doesn’t,” Akechi said, far too quickly to be comfortable for either of them.

      The atmosphere shifted and Akira moved too quickly for Akechi to register, He was crouched before him with arms caged on either side of the bed on which Akechi sat. And he looked sad, sadder than Akechi had ever seen him look before.

      “Goro, please — don’t talk like that,” Akira said, head dropping in shame, as if he knew he was asking the impossible.

      Akechi held no response at the ready. He wasn’t suicidal. He couldn’t be. Not before Shido received justice, but then what? He couldn’t say. His future was planned in some respects, being that he didn’t have one. What would he do when his father was behind bars? He would implicate himself too, but given a large majority of the crimes he committed where when he was a minor, would he stand a chance? Could he stand a chance? Was Akira trying to get him to see that there was something else?

      Goro Akechi did not know. 

      He could not know.

      He could not hope.

      The two were silent for several minutes.

      Akira finally broke it, looking up from the floor beneath their feet and falling back to sit with his legs crossed before Akechi. The attic floor couldn’t be comfortable, but Akira smiled, the corners of his mouth tinged in melancholy, but it was a smile, nonetheless. “You know, that was mine,” Akira said, gesturing to the red hoodie Goro wore. “The pullover — I lent it to Mishima. I thought he might need it someday.”

      That conjured a broken laugh from Goro’s throat. 

      “Of course it was —,” He said.

      “In Crossroads, that’s what drew my eyes.”

      “Are you expecting some sort of climatic response?” Akechi asked.

      “No, I’d just like to know that you hear me,” Akira said, a small laugh escaping him. “Meeting you, it’s — been intense,” Akira looked away, grey gaze cast upon the rain that fell outside of the window. “I’ve never felt closer —,” He scratched the back of his head and Goro nearly smiled as he recognized the nervous gesture, “And at the same time, farther away from someone.”

      “How odd of you to describe it as so,” Akechi replied, drawing the attention of Akira’s eyes back to him. He steepled his hands together in his lap, allowed the grin that had been threatening to overtake his features to flourish and agreed. “I find myself feeling the same. — Perhaps that is why I wish for you to call me by my name.”

      Akira nodded in response, and he relaxed again. He smirked in Akechi’s direction and while part of the detective immediately regretted his words, another part felt some of the immense pressure in his chest alleviate.

      “It’s not my inherit charm?” Akira asked.

      Akechi stifled a laugh, a real one — even as he protested Akira’s claim, “You wish.”

      “Careful, Goro, you almost sounded like a teenager there,” Akira teased.

      “I’ll have you arrested for slander,” Akechi threatened, the smile on his face betraying any true ill will he had towards Akira.

      “Then I’ll be sure to keep my mouth shut, but before then…” Akira trailed off, pausing as if to ascertain whether or not he was truly the center of Akechi’s attention. The detective chose not to linger too long on the thought that Akira had beyond captured his interest. Perhaps the notion existed as an effect of the lingering drugs in his system, or the relief he felt that he had not irreparably damaged whatever tied him and this man together. “— Goro, I need you to listen to me,” Akira continued, “If you don’t hear anything else I’ve ever said to you, that anyone’s ever said to you, please know this —.”

      Goro would have leaned forward in response from what urgency Akira spoke with, if not for the stabbing pain in his ribs.

      “What is it?” He settled with asking.

      “You’re not your father and you don’t have to be him,” Akira said, “Blood doesn’t make family and — it doesn’t make you the same.”

      Akechi’s lips curled into a smile. The expression didn’t reach his eyes and he didn’t bother hiding that fact. Akira, noble Akira, wouldn’t give up. It almost made Akechi happy, but it even then, it made him sad. The gnawing emptiness in his chest he had grown so accustomed to ached.

      He could almost feel it, that something else that rested beyond his plot to ruin Shido that Akira’s very existence seemed to promise.

      “If only it were that simple, Akira,” Akechi said, ignoring how hope’s very presence seemed to swarm around his form, almost like the cat that gently pressed itself against his back.

      “Why does it have to be complicated?” Akira asked.

      “For as much as you know of me, Akira. There is much you don’t.” Akechi replied, looking down at him.

      “Then, tell me,” Akira said, rising to his knees, again caging Akechi with his arms,“Trust me.”

      “I don’t know if I can,” Akechi said, turning away, so he wouldn’t have to look into Akira’s grey eyes. “— Even if I were to try.” He knew he should have stopped there, but even if he couldn’t really see Akira, he could feel him, hovering before him. And the compulsion to speak overthrew reason, “There are so many things I’ve never said before. They say not to shoot the messenger but do you know how many files I’ve delivered that came to be the equivalent of —.”

      He managed to stop himself from speaking with a harsh bite to his own tongue. He had almost admitted to being a harbinger of death. He had almost sullied this pure being before him with the knowledge that he cared for a true monster, a murderer.

      “Goro…?” Akira asked, and Akechi nodded once, then met grey eyes with his own.

      If honesty is what Akira begged of him, Akechi would tell him the one truth that outweighed all the others. Even now, broken and beaten, in the attic of a cafe with a man he’d met through chance alone, Akechi’s resolve had not shaken. 

      It could not be shaken. No matter what this man before him said, no matter what the aftermath of destroying his father would bring, Akechi would lead Shido to ruin.

      Good or bad, the consequences could be dealt with after he shattered the throne of a would-be king.

      “I have made my peace with my choices,” Akechi said, “And I do not regret them.” The detective leaned forward, ever so slightly, as if he were sharing a secret with Akira. In truth, he was. “If it were not for me, Shido would become Prime Minister, and I cannot allow that to come to pass.”

      Akira leaned back, out of Akechi’s space, a small grin working at the corners of his mouth. Something shifted behind the lenses that guarded his eyes, and understanding seemed to wash over him. Akechi might even go far enough as to assert that the other man looked a little impressed.

      Akechi wondered if his eyes were set ablaze — if Akira saw the fire that he ignited within himself when he had chosen to destroy the man that would call himself his father.

      “You have a plan.” Akira said.

      “I have something —,” Akechi replied, “and I’ve worked too hard to let anything or anyone get in the way of that.”

      “Am I —,” Akira asked, “in the way?”

      Akechi refused to acknowledge that he shook his head before he said, “I haven’t yet decided.”

      “Let me know when you figure it out — okay?” Akira said, a full fledged grin pulling at his features. He rose to his feet, then, and returned to where he sat beside Akechi. “But until then, we’ve gotta do some damage control.”

      “Damage control?” Akechi asked, “— Certainly the only people I imposed upon were Dr. Takemi, Mishima and yourself.”

      “You —,” Akira stifled a laugh, “You don’t remember?”

      “Remember what, Akira?” Akechi asked.

      “Goro — you kissed Mishima,” Akira replied.

      No. There was no conceivable timeline where Akechi would so haphazardly endanger his friendship with Mishima. He remembered his interaction with Mishima briefly, but he also remembered pale skin and dark hair. Then, there was the burning of his flesh were fingertips pressed against the fabric of the very pullover that he had learned once belonged to Akira.

      “I did not —,” Akechi refuted.

      “It doesn’t sound like something Mishima would lie about,” Akira responded.

      “I am,” Akechi considered his words carefully. “I am afraid I don’t understand how such a thing would come to pass.”

      Akira cleared his throat, and looked away from Akechi.

      “I guess Goro Akechi — under the influence — has a thing for Mishima,” He said.

      “I cannot fathom a universe where that is a remote possibility,” Akechi answered. “Certainly — I am close to Mishima, but I have never viewed him romantically.” He shook his head,” I believe all I really remember is pale skin and dark hair, then recognizing Mishima.”

      “You — uh,” Akira sighed, “You realized he wasn’t just another body?”

      Akechi nodded. “Yes, I suppose, How much does he know? — If I may ask?”

      “He knows about the,” Akira paused, “abuse. But — I don’t think he knows it’s Shido.” Akira exhaled, the action seemed deliberate as he spoke, “Takemi asked me when I got to the clinic if Mishima should be allowed to know your current state.” Akechi’s eyes widened and Akira immediately dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand, “To which, I said I couldn’t make that decision for you.” Akechi released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, the abruptness of the action making him wince. He should have known Akira would not have presumed himself important enough to decide something like that on Akechi’s behalf. “She decided that since you called him, that he had a right. Especially since there is no next of kin listed for a Yamada Taro.”

      “He’s an idiot,” Akechi said.

      “Yeah, I think he learned that from me,” Akira explained.

      “To be honest, I believe I was equally foolish when we first met,” Akechi noted, something like fondness curving the edge of his mouth.

      “So, what’s it about Mishima?” Akira asked then, “If not love.”

      “I’ve never really been able to articulate it, Akira,” Akechi explained, a sigh parting his lips. “He was one of the first people to see me at what I believed to be my worst and he didn’t turn away.” Akechi pushed his hair back out of his face, “Sometimes, I wonder if it is because we’re the same. That he recognizes this sort of imprisonment I find myself in.” His lips pressed together into a thin line and he addressed Akira, “Do you — do you think he pities me?”

      “You don’t pity your heroes, but you do worry about them.” Akira replied, with all the reverence of speaking of the weather. Akechi was left to ponder how simple it seemed to Akira when he couldn’t fathom such a concept. “Regardless, I think we can both agree that Mishima deserves an apology. You don’t realize this, but you looked like death, Goro.”

      “I believe I owe you an apology as well, Akira,” Akechi said.

      “For what?” Akira asked.

      “For being so carless with my words,” Akechi explained, “This morning, I did not realize I would hurt you with such a claim.”

      “So, it’s not because I’m plain?” Akira teased, an attempt to ease the tension. Akechi leaned into it, the curve of his mouth suggesting so much.

      “Akira,” Akechi replied, shaking his head, “Certainly you must know you are everything but plain. After all, Kitagawa wants you as his muse.”

      “To me,” Akira said, a soft laugh escaping him, “it sounded a lot like he wanted you beside me.”

      They were quiet for a few minutes more and Akechi was forced to question how long it would be until the sun rose, until he would be forced to return to his everyday life, until Shido would expect something more from him than serving as a literal punching bag. He was exhausted, in more ways than one, by recent events and here he was, when he should be resting, speaking to Akira as if he were his closest confidant rather than a man he’d met what felt like only yesterday.

      Right now, he felt like speaking was all he could do — so speak, he did.

      “You know,” Akechi said, securing Akira’s attention once more, “I never intended for it to turn out like this. I’ve made sacrifices, personal ones, in order to keep things in line to manipulate Shido. I mean to build him up, if only to tear him down. Ending him has always been my goal. I only wanted him to suffer from something he could never recover from.”

      Akira seemed to considered Akechi’s confession. Truthfully, the detective was apprehensive about Akira’s response. He had never laid bare his motivations in such a fashion, but he needed Akira to know that he would stop Shido — that Akira could still have faith in him, to be the man he once thought he was. He wanted Akira to trust him and for that, he had to show him that he returned the sentiment.

      “What about you?” Was all Akira asked in response.

      He truly didn’t have the answer to that, not anymore, at least. Before, it had been simple. Akechi had resigned himself to a fate similar to his father’s, or death. There was no future, no reason to consider someone other than himself, but now, as the date of the election was approaching, Shido’s demands were growing and Akechi was running out of time.

      He still had one shot, but it seemed as if he didn’t have to necessarily kill himself to make it. He couldn’t yet, after all. Not when Okumura’s father would still marry her off to the highest bidder or when Mishima would have no one to believe in, or even when Akira’s record was smeared by a man’s attempted sexual assault of a woman.

      “I’d rather die than turn out like him,” Akechi said.

      “Can’t you see that you’re already not like him?” Akira replied.

      “You had asked me, what was in it for me, when I gave Kaneshiro’s case over to Niijima.” Akechi explained. Akira nodded, and the detective took that as a signal to continue. “I — was willing to sacrifice Niijima for the sake of Mishima.”

      “So, taking down Kaneshiro was demanded by the public —,” Akira said, looking to Akechi for confirmation. The detective nodded and Akira continued, “When Shido threatened to remove the call to arms, you convinced him it was better for him to eliminate Kaneshiro from the equation. As a result, you were able to put Niijima at risk instead of Mishima.”

      “Yes,” Akechi confirmed.

      “And if she would have followed you out there,” Akira asked, “what would you have done?”

      “I — I cannot possibly predict what I would have done under those circumstances,” Akechi said, a protest against Akira’s ceaseless prying.

      “Okay Goro,” Akira pressed, “then explain why you protected me.”

      “In simple terms, your significance to Mishima was a deciding factor,” Akechi explained.

      Akira was unfazed. Perhaps Akechi should have chosen his words more carefully, considering the other man chose to cling to one particular phrase.

      “And in less simple terms?” He asked.

      In less simple terms, Akechi would be far better off having immediately eliminated Akira from his life. Akira, of course, would be better off, too. In simple terms, his compulsion to protect was far more powerful than his compulsion to ruin.

      Akechi was a man who would not surrender.

      He would not lose.

      And Akira, well —.

      Something about this man, whose eyes didn’t look at him any different than they had when he first met to this moment now, he found that along with his goal of destroying his father, his wanted this too.

      “He hit you,” Akechi said instead, deflecting, “— How is your hand, by the way?”

      “I’ll manage —,” Akira quickly replied, following it up with another question, “Why are you being evasive?”

      Akechi was a lot of things and evasive was one of those. So was dishonest, but he was mostly just tired and not to mention sore.

      So, Akira confronting him, yet again, on this night — was just enough to make him angry.

      “Evasive?” Akechi spat, “You have the gall to me evasive when I’ve done nothing but be honest to you and only you because you forced your way into my life,” He ignored the violent surge of pain throughout his abdomen as he stood, turning if only so he could look down on Akira. “And now, you want to dare make demands of me? — Have you really nothing better to do than to dissect strangers — make them reveal everything to you and then what?” He snarled through gritted teeth, “What’s the grand finale, Akira Kurusu? To what end do you achieve by tearing people apart at the seams?”

      He didn’t expect Akira to back down, of course. 

      At this point, he knew better, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

      Even if he knew he’d regret every harsh word out of his mouth. Akechi had been effectively torn apart at the seams by Akira and he’d spent far too much of his life being shattered by others to allow another person to do their bidding and leave.

      Akira stood, and Akechi would have backed up if not for his surprise.

      He couldn’t move. 

      He couldn’t breathe.

      “Goro,” Akira said, softly, like a whisper, “could you please just stop trying to push me away?” He wasn’t yelling and he wasn’t angry. He was looking at Akechi with a twinge of melancholy in his gaze. This close, Akechi could see the slight discoloration of Akira’s skin, where he had covered up the bruise from where Uchida’s hand met his flesh.

      “Akira, I —,” Akechi said, hand unconsciously reaching up once more, Akira caught his wrist in his grasp. And pressed him back, gently, giving them a little space between each other, but he still spoke quietly, as if anything above a whisper would set Akechi off.

      “I’ve been listening to you for a while, Goro — but it’s still like I don’t know a damn thing about you.” Akira sighed, and removed his glasses for a moment, if only to pinch the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, Akechi realized that he had never born witness to the darkness settled under grey hues, nor the red rims lining Akira’s eyes. His mask was back on as soon as he removed it, glasses obscuring his eyes and lips curved ever so slightly when he spoke, “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I think I’ve proved that you can trust me — and even if you feel like you can’t, that’s okay, too.” He forced a soft laugh, and Akechi hated the way it sounded coming out of his throat. “I mean, if anything, from the way you talk about yourself, shouldn’t I be the one afraid you’re going to stab me in the back? But you didn’t. And you won’t. — You said it yourself, you don’t want people to get hurt so fucking let me help — let me be your friend.”

      “Your friend?” Akechi asked.

      “Or something like that,” Akira suggested.

      Akechi sighed.

      It hurt.

      Everything hurt.

      “I can’t stand you,” He said, halfheartedly.

      “Yeah, I know,” Akira replied, flashing a genuine smile at Akechi.

      One that his body was traitorously returning to the other man, the expression just as infuriatingly genuine as its mirror.

      “Is that so?” Akechi asked.

      “Yeah, I _know_ that you care,” Akira explained, “And I don’t think it’s a weakness. If I did, I’d have to think Mishima dragging himself out to the Red Light District at night isn’t brave. I’d have to believe that following you into that warehouse was a mistake. And, I’d have to think that Tae listing you as a Yamada Taro at the risk of losing her license to practice medicine was a mistake.” Akira sat down again, looking up at Akechi now. “Caring is not a weakness, Goro. It makes you strong — stronger than I’ve ever seen another person be. And if you think that your plan, the sacrifices you say you have to make to keep Shido from becoming the most powerful person in Japan is a weakness, then you’ve never known strength.”

      Again, Akira has deprived Akechi of his words. He rendered Akechi’s silver tongue useless. Akechi might have been standing there, looking down at Akira, but what weighed more upon the scales was often considered far more important that its elevated counterpart.

      “What exactly are implying, Akira?” Akechi asked.

      “At this point, I’ll be honest, I don’t even know —,” Akira said, another huff of amusement parting his lips, “but I just need you to understand that you’ve got something to live for.” He smiled, pausing momentarily before he suggested,“So, if you’ll let me, I want to introduce you to someone. I think they’ll be able to change your mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at this, I updated this fic and it's been less than a month, for once! Be sure to let me know what you guys think. Tweet me at [amgedpha](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or leave a comment here with your thoughts!
> 
> Hope you're looking forward to the next few chapters. We might just see a few faces we haven't been introduced to yet!


	20. bated breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had said that Goro did not have to deal with this alone, that even if he couldn’t escape — that he could survive. He could endure. And that, he — Akira Kurusu — would be there for him. Whatever the hell that meant, indeed.

      For Goro Akechi, sleep always proved trying affair. He would have to work himself the brink of exhaustion to find any sort of rest. He was always on edge, always insistent on keeping his eyes open and watching his own back, for life had long since taught him that no one else would. But now, he acquiesced that perhaps his perception had been skewed, for why else would he find himself resting upon Akira Kurusu’s makeshift bed while the barista lounged on a single sofa across the room?

      His outlook was altered by Akira’s demands that he stay and rest — Akira’s begrudging acceptance of his refusal of the painkillers offered to him — and his own commandment that Akira call him by his first name.

      It was beyond disorientating.

      Had Akechi been slain by his own hand, only for Goro to stand in his place?

       _Goro_.

      A name that did not sound nearly as damning as its counterpart.

      It sounded real. It sounded tangible. It sounded like a promise.

      Perhaps he would take to calling himself thus, to those he trusted implicitly. Perhaps Akira had a point when he had claimed that he should not be the only one to call Goro by his given name if he were to die tomorrow.

      Nevertheless, thinking of himself as Goro rather than Akechi did little to soothe the pain of his body effectively ripping itself apart every time he moved, every time he breathed.

      Goro did not anticipate sleeping a wink, but it seemed Akira resigned himself to same fate, as he had moved a blanket and a pillow to the floor next to the bed. It as a gesture of solidarity, Goro assumed, as Akira willingly submitted himself to a restless night alongside the suffering party.

      Goro absolutely despised how something less painful shifted within his chest at the gesture.

      The act was so fitting.

      And very Akira.

      If Goro knew a damn thing about him, at least.

      “Goro — are you awake?” He heard Akira’s voice call out softly, after a while.  He spoke quietly, as if not to disturb Goro, despite the two both being well aware that Goro was unlikely to rest at all that night.

      It was another trivial gesture that made the weight in his chest alleviate, though Goro ignored acknowledging so much.

      “Yes,” He simply replied, biting his tongue on the speech that threatened to spill past his lips. The words he contained would have revolved around how difficult he found it to close his eyes on most nights, how he was often forced exhaust both his mind and body to catch the few hours of rest he does, how those same hours are often plagued with nightmares. He wouldn’t mention that, nor the visions of the man he killed with his own two hands and the countless others and their horror stricken faces as he delivered their death sentences.

      Then, of course, the fates of those around him, if he were to fail — how all of Japan would be led to ruin if he were to miss the one shot he allotted himself.

      He had never dreamed of dying, though.

      He had always dreamed of living and that was worse. His mind conjured the horrors of Shido learning of his plot and making him truly suffer for it. It would be a mercy if Shido killed him, but the man wouldn’t be able to do that — he’d force unimaginable despair upon Goro and make him stand and smile and perform his role with a hopelessness beyond which Goro could fathom.

      “How are you feeling?” Akira asked, breaking Goro from his potential debilitating train of thought. His voice was louder than the buzz of Goro’s musings, which still prickled at the edge of his consciousness. The pain dulled the sounds as well.

      Disparity need not have him within its grasp just yet.

      “Each twinge of pain is just as jarring as the last,” Goro said.

      “I can go to Tae’s and get you something to help you sleep,” Akira offered, “since you refused the painkillers.”

      “No.”

      Goro’s response was abrupt and he was left wondering if Akira heard the audible clack of teeth as the detective forced his own mouth shut. He winced at the sound. Goro already imagined he ground his teeth together in his sleep — it wouldn’t do to damage them while awake.

      Akira’s response told him everything he needed to know.

      “Goro, I get you’re trying to prove a point but Tae wouldn’t imply you were an addict if she really believed it.” Akira assured him. “If anything, it was a warning.”

      Funny, he hadn’t mentioned Tae’s accusations to Akira. He wondered just how much the doctor had disclosed to her assistant. Nonetheless, he ignored the comment.

      If only being accused of an addiction to illicit substances what he was truly worried about. In one breath, he was certain this was a concern, but in another, he simply did not wish for Akira to leave his side. His voice, his words — though Goro imagined any words from anyone, aside from Shido — did well to keep him present. They grounded him to reality just as the pain wracking his form did.

      “I’m certainly addicted to something…” Goro said.

      “Can’t put a name to it?”

      “Akira —,” Goro replied, rolling his eyes despite Akira not being able to see it.

      “All I’m saying is —,” Akira started, only for Goro to interrupt him.

      “Allowing people to call me by my first name would help, correct?” Goro asked, a lilt to his tone that rang of mock glee.

      “Yeah,” Akira replied. He sighed, “I know it might sound crazy, but you matter, Goro.” The barista paused, as if to emphasize this point. “What happens to you — after Shido — it matters.”

      “I wish you would stop that, Akira,” Goro replied, the corner of his mouth pulling into a resigned grin. “I have made my bed and I intend to lie in it.”

      “And I don’t intend to stop you,” Akira said, a mirthless laugh escaping him when Goro didn’t immediately respond. “I know you don’t need a hero.”

      “Only children believe in heroes and I —,” Goro stopped.

      They both fell into a silence.

      Akira broke it and another barrier Goro had erected fell to his companion’s whims.

      “So with Yuuki — I get it now,” Akira said. Goro arched a brow at the barista’s claim, but before he could question the other man, he was met with an explanation. “He reminds you of what you used to be,” Akira added, quietly. “Or maybe — what you could have been.”

      Goro swallowed hard, the action caused a surge of pain through his form. He wasn’t entirely certain whether it was all physical. Truthfully, he couldn’t argue with Akira on this. He remembered believing in heroes, in knights, and in princesses who would awake from deathly slumbers.

      And when Yuuki Mishima had dubbed him ‘Robin Hood,’ he thought that maybe, even if he did turn into beast when the last petal fell, the people he saved, the people he helped, would remember more than his sullied name.

      That, perhaps, they would remember what he did right.

      He said none of this, of course.

      “This person you intend to introduce me to,” Goro said, ignoring Akira’s painfully accurate dissection of his psyche, “— Did you _save_ them?”

      “She saved herself,” Akira explained, “but she might have called me her key item.”

      “I see,” Goro replied.

      “She reminds me a lot of you,” Akira added.

       _Interesting._ He wondered if this ‘she’ was also a murderer who devoted herself to a life which revolved around destroying her very own monstrous father figure.

      “How so — if I may ask?” Goro said.

      “She was very closed off when we first met,” Akira said and Goro could practically hear the smile pulling at Akira’s lips as he spoke. “It was an accident, really,” Akira explained. “Sojiro is her guardian and during my first year, Makoto, Ryuji, Ann, and I overheard a conversation he was having with her uncle. — So, we did what any good teens would do and decided to investigate. Eventually, that led to Sojiro having to tell us what was going on.”

      “And, what was going on?” Goro asked.

      “She wanted to die,” Akira said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret. “She thought she deserved to.”

      Goro’s breath hitched and he was not so ignorant as to believe Akira hadn’t heard the sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth.

      “Why?” He asked.

      “It’s not my story to tell —,” Akira started, and for a moment, Goro thought he would finish there, but he continued. “The short of it is that she blamed herself for her mother’s death. Her mom — killed herself. There was a note and everything. As a kid, she couldn’t handle it. I don’t know how anyone could have.”

      The similarities were terrifying, that a mother’s death could change a child’s outlook for life. Goro was shaken, but he couldn’t look back at his own experiences and he certainly couldn’t compare himself to this girl.

      Goro did not blame himself for his own mother’s suicide, right?

      No, he wasn’t responsible. He could not have been responsible. He was only a child, albeit a child his mother hadn’t asked for, but a child nonetheless. His mother had run from Shido to protect them both. Given that information, concluding that she wanted to die simply because her child lived was illogical.

      Shido — Masayoshi Shido — had killed his mother.

      Goro was avenging her, and himself.

      He didn’t recall sharing the information that his mother had committed suicide over a no good man to Akira. It would have been too easy to piece together that his father was that ‘man.’

      So, Akira couldn’t know and Goro wasn’t likely to tell him.

      “I strike you as suicidal,” Goro said, instead.

      “That’s not what I mean,” Akira protested.

      “Then, what do you mean?” Goro asked, reversing their roles, forcing Akira to explain rather than being the one to lay his own cards on the table.

      “Sometimes —,” Akira confessed, a sigh parting his lips. “I feel like you don’t know what to do. That you feel trapped, that you feel that — whatever this is — can only end one way.”

      “I’ve orchestrated it specifically to only implicate Shido…” Goro said.

      “But to do that, you’re going to implicate yourself,” Akira replied.

      “I don’t have a choice, Akira.” Goro sighed.

      “Goro, I — just tell someone — come clean,” Akira insisted. “There has to be a way. I don’t want Shido to be the prime minister either, but why is this your responsibility?”

       _Because I helped him get there._

      “What if there isn’t a way?” Goro asked.

      “Then, we’ll figure something else out,” Akira replied, a slight huff of amusement escaping him. He paused then, the only sounds that of their breath and the rain against the walls of the cafe. “I don’t know —,” Akira confessed in a whisper. “I don’t know what you’ve done, Goro. I just know you’re in trouble. I can’t say if there is a way out of whatever you’re involved in, but what I can guarantee is that you don’t have to deal with this alone. I’m here for you,” The barista forced a laugh, and Goro didn’t need to see his face to know that the corners of his mouth were curved in a frown when he added, “Whatever the hell that means.”

      Akira’s response was painfully honest. It was a truth that Goro had known since he started on this path. That it was possible to achieve his goal, if he were willing to forsake the chance to escape the same fate that awaited his victim. But Akira hadn’t spoken of escaping. No, he spoke of confronting. He had said that Goro did not have to deal with this alone, that even if he couldn’t escape — that he could survive. He could endure.

      And that, he — Akira Kurusu — would be there for him.

      Whatever the hell that meant, indeed.

      Goro nodded, despite Akira not being able to see it.

      “If your offer to be here is true, might I request something of you?” Goro asked, so quiet that he thought that Akira might not have heard him, until the sound of a small laugh escaping Kurusu struck his ears, as if the barista were amused at the thought that Goro still do not seem to believe him.

      Goro’s breath caught in his lungs and another surge of pain raged through his abdomen, but before he could tell himself how foolish he was being for believing Akira’s intentions to be pure, the other man spoke.

      “Yeah, Goro. Whatever you want,” Akira said.

      His breath somehow became even more shallow at the confirmation. He wondered how weak he sounded when his request finally parted his lips.

      “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to — simply say anything?” Goro asked, in the same quiet voice from before. “— To keep talking. To say anything and nothing at all.”

      It was only then that Goro was struck with the terrible thought that perhaps it was too late for not only himself, but for Akira. At this rate, Akira would only suffer by his hand. But the man, this stranger who had somehow become his closest confidant had woven himself so intricately into Goro’s life already, by choice or by fate or by both. He had surpassed the mark where Goro had chosen to leave Mishima behind. No, Akira had chosen to continue to blindly follow Goro.

      He invited Goro to continue.

      He invited Goro to take, take, take — and keep taking.

      Just like his father before him.

      If he was not careful, Goro knew he could steal the very air from Akira’s lungs and rip the still beating heart from his chest. He could imagine Akira’s fractured smile hiding something even Goro could not decipher as he devoured the other man whole, until there was nothing left. And at the end, Goro would end up just as alone as he was before.

      He laughed, and it hurt to laugh, he realized as his thoughts buzzed at the edges of his consciousness, even as he tried to focus on a story of when Akira took Sakamoto and Takamaki to a buffet where Sakamoto ate so much that he threw up. Akira then proceeded to explain how he, himself, had been obliterated by a child in an arcade game when had once visited Akihabara. The barista even mentioned Mishima — Yuuki, Akira called him as he seemed to get lost in the tale, and how persistent Yuuki had been in having Akira accompany him to meet some girls from Goro’s very own fansite.

      Goro bit his tongue at that particular anecdote, the goodnatured chuckle the story coaxed from  him getting stuck in his throat as he realized he still had ‘that’ to deal with.

      He could only think of one reason he had kissed Yuuki Mishima. And that reason was probably because he was trying to pay the other man back.

      Kindness twisted into a transaction.

      Another fucking transaction.

      Probably another ‘fucking’ transaction had they not come to their senses.

      Goro had long since subscribed to the notion that others were the sovereigns of his body. This mortal coil, the body he’d been born into, the one he nurtured from the nothingness around him meant very little to him. If anything, it served as as distraction, a way to get off, a way to momentarily forget the painfully reality of his life. Truthfully, such base urges weren’t anything he ever really desired acting upon, or needed for that matter. A small part of his mind bitterly assigned the behavior as teenage rebellion. Or was it escapism, perhaps? A way to seize and relinquish control on his own terms, rather than by those who surrounded him.

      But it had to be more than that, right?

      Perhaps, it was the far off notion that being close to someone — if only for a night or an hour.

      Goro was exhausted, truly. He was beyond sleep and far beyond rational thought when he felt a single tear escape the corner of his left eye. Noting the unsteady cadence of his breath, he was forced to acknowledge that he was on the cusp of crying.

      When was the last time he cried?

      When was the last time he felt safe enough to cry?

      The only grounding force in that moment was the pain that flooded his muscles — pulling, pushing, and throbbing as he breathed.

      Goro noticed a flash a movement out of the corner of his eye and briefly registered that Akira was on his knees, beside the futon, sat up from where he previously laid. He tilted his head ever so slightly in Akira’s direction and though he managed to keep the tears at bay, he could only imagine what panic the other man saw in his eyes.

      He nearly missed how Akira’s glasses were absent and how grey eyes shifted from anxious to determined on a dime.

      Akira was speaking, prompting Goro to act before anything else could happen.

      “Hey, Goro — Goro. Listen to me.” Akira said, his tone perhaps the most serene and unhurried Goro had ever heard it. “Goro — I’m here,” He reassured, “Just breathe with me, okay?” Akira inhaled. “In — 1…2…3…4 and,” He exhaled. “Out. 1…2…3…4.”

      Goro had barely registered being on the verge of hyperventilating, not when Akira reached across the futon and grabbed his hand, urging him on.

      Goro didn’t know how long this lasted. He didn’t know how long Akira had devoted himself to bringing Goro down, but he knew it was infantilizing and humiliating. Nonetheless, he had been incapable of resisting Akira’s guidance. He was too tired and too trained to do what he was told. Even if Akira had to see him like this, Goro was forced to trust that the barista would see him in better moments, too.

      Akira maintained his distance, at the edge of the bed, even with his arm outstretched with Goro’s palm wrapped in his own. Goro hardly realized he had a death grip on his companion’s hand. It was only when he seemed to come down, seemed to control his breathing once more — that the burning in his chest came from his injuries rather than his own mind — that he had noticed he held onto Akira’s hand at all.

      His head fell completely to the side, maroon eyes meeting grey when he noticed the smile splitting his companion’s lips. A gentle squeeze of his hand has Goro releasing Akira from his grasp, and he found himself smiling, too.

      Suddenly, exhaustion seemed enough to beckon him to oblivion.

      The last thing he saw before he fell to the thrall of Morpheus was grey eyes, uninhibited by the lenses that would normally hide them.

* * *

      Goro was the first to wake. The light invading his vision from the window to his side reminded him of his surroundings. He was in Leblanc, the cafe he had dubbed a personal sanctuary. More precisely, the detective was in the attic, formerly known as Akira’s high school lodgings.

      He didn’t allow himself to linger on the thoughts of Akira as a labeled criminal in high school nor did he allow himself to consider what it would have been like to know the other man at such a time.

      Questions of Akira’s outlook after his wrongful incarceration at the hands of Shido would surely drive Goro mad. Questions of if he had met Akira at such a time would certainly lead Goro just as astray.

      Had Akira been withdrawn? —No, not with his number of friends and associates. Would Akira have been even more difficult to read? —Maybe he had been more forthcoming before being labeled a criminal. Would Akira’s masks still slip in and out of place with the ease at which they did now? —For all Goro knew, Akira didn’t have masks in the first place. Would Goro have taken the time to even know Akira at all? —Perhaps not, unless Akira had given him chase then as he did now.

      The detective sighed and erected a wall between himself a such a train of thought. There was no use in ruminating over a timeline that didn’t exist, one where he could have met Akira Kurusu earlier.

      Instead, he chose to test the extent of his injuries. Rising to prop himself upon his elbows was trying, but not impossible. Despite the lingering pain from his father’s latest decompression session, he managed to withhold a wince and found that he was not nearly in as much pain as he anticipated being in.

      He refused to attribute such an effect to catharsis.

      That itself proved a difficult feat when he caught sight of Akira out of the corner of his eye. Well, it was simply a mop of black hair splayed over two pale arms with a phone screen dark from inactivity resting in his hand, but Akira nonetheless.

      However, he shook off the thoughts, instead considering how if he was sore that Akira was likely to be in agony from the way he was hunched over the edge of the bed, neck bent at a concerning angle.

      Goro was quick to dismiss the implications of being watched while he slept. Akira’s basic medical background while working for Dr. Takemi assuaged those musings and the phone in Akira’s hands begged the detective to consider that the barista likely felt inclined to update Mishima or even Dr. Takemi on his condition.

      Of course, that itself was placing a great amount of trust in Akira. He justified not considering the worst of Akira as a gesture of good faith that the other man would keep his word, that he would ‘be there’ for him.

       _“Whatever the hell that means.”_

      Of course, no one else knew a fraction of what Akira did.

      No one else could, if Goro knew what was good for him.

      Goro sighed and considered the phone in Akira’s hands once more. He wondered where his was. Had it been lost in Shinjuku? Did Mishima have it? Had it been left at Dr. Takemi’s clinic? He reached over to seize the other man’s phone from Akira’s grasp, only to watch the screen light up with a sign that the barista had received a message. He stopped short of taking it from Akira’s hand, noting the name of the proprietor of Leblanc and the time on the screen.

      It was past midday and yet he heard nothing from downstairs, not the faint humming of the television nor the clink of ceramic mugs against the wooden countertops.

      He moved to sit all the way up, the action tearing his lips apart in an audible gasp. The movement and the sound seemed to alert Akira, causing his companion to stir.

      Goro froze, maroon eyes landing on grey ones that opened ever so slightly. Akira seemed to blink — once, twice — before returning to himself.

      “Goro,” Akira said, bringing one hand up to press the heel of his palm against his eye, the other holding onto the phone in his hand. “Are you okay? — How long have you been awake?”

      “I’m sorry.” Goro sighed. “I did not intend to wake you.”

      Akira hummed thoughtfully and stretched, seizing his glasses off the shelf nearest the bed.

      “Can you translate that for me?” Akira asked, Goro arched a brow and Akira smiled. “I mean, is that ‘not long’ in the language of one Goro Akechi?”

      Goro was hard pressed not to grin in response and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, betraying his amusement. He shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the expression, but the grin pulling at Akira’s lips told him that his efforts were futile.

      Something had shifted between the two of them, and they both knew it. Whether it be that the light of day had been shed over Goro Akechi in Akira’s eyes or perhaps a more active effort on Goro’s part to pretend, a tentative, yet tangible sincerity seemed to string them together now.

      Goro was in over his head, but he imagined Akira was too.

      Perhaps that’s why he found himself inclined to play along.

      “I can supply you with a Goro Akechi to Japanese dictionary, if you’d like.” Goro offered, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “Though I would be forced to consider this a strike against your application to befriend someone of my status.”

      Akira’s eyes widened ever so slightly at Goro’s response, but he was still smiling. The detective imagined, if anything, Akira might just have been pleasantly surprised that Goro had chosen to humor him.

      Without his glasses, Goro imagined he would be able to see the how the expression reached his eyes, where the glare of lenses would normally hide them.

      “I apologize, of course,” Akira said, smile turning into a smirk, “I mean, how dare I? — A commoner — a delinquent one at that, extend the offer of friendship to a prince?”

      Goro bit his tongue as tales of criminals befriending royalty filled his mind. Whether it was Rapunzel and the thief who helped her escape her tower, or Buttercup and Westley, the latter helping the former escape a marriage that she would have been forced into.

      He supposed Akira, like those criminals, served as his own personal form of escapism.

      He didn’t allow himself to linger on the possible implications.

      “I may speak lightly now,” Goro said, “but I’ll have you know that Okumura and Niijima were the only ones to pass Shido’s extensive screening process when I was growing up.”

      Instead of the condolences that Goro expected to hear, Akira continued to surprise him.

      “Well,” Akira said, leaning back, rubbing the back of his neck, “it’s about time you rebelled a little, isn’t it?”

      He was smiling, though and Goro already felt his jaw aching from the grin pulling at his own features.

      “I suppose so…” Goro replied.

      “By the way, how are you feeling?” Akira asked.

      “Likely as sore as you are,” Goro said, deflecting.

      “I don’t think a crick in my neck compares,” Akira countered.

      “As someone who actively falls asleep at his desk,” Goro protested, “I can assure you that neck injuries are rather debilitating.”

      “Either way, you slept in those pants,” Akira said, gaze briefly straying to Goro’s legs, “If anyone’s uncomfortable — it’s you.”

      Goro was forced to concede to that.

      These pants were in fact, not made for sleeping in.

      “You might have me there, Akira,” He admitted.

      It was then that Akira suggested they actually get up, but not before Goro asked about the whereabouts of his phone. The barista pointed to a chair settled at the foot of the bed, where the phone was resting, plugged into a wall to charger, but obviously turned off. Akira’s excuse when Goro asked why it was off was that he remembered Goro’s obnoxious alarm.

      The detective hated knowing that Akira had turned his phone off to give Goro a break. He said nothing in response, rolling his eyes before retrieving the device. When powered on, Goro was met with several alerts from Shido, Mishima, and both Niijima sisters.

      It seemed as if Shido had done him the service of alerting Sae that he would miss his internship and alerted his professors that he would be out for the day, as well. The younger Niijima sister had learned from Sae that Goro was ‘ill’ and sent him a message indicating that she was gathering notes and homework assignments in his stead. Mishima sent his best and Shido was sure to remind Goro that he would need to be back on his feet the next day and demanded he enact a plan to apprehend Kaneshiro within the next two weeks.

      His _loving_ father also had a prescription delivered to his apartment. Shido, of course, couldn’t have Goro out of commission longer than strictly necessary.

      Goro intended to dispose of whatever medication awaited him as soon as he got home. For the near future, despite any pain or discomfort, he couldn’t allow himself such mercies. Goro needed to become more strict with himself. He needed to be reminded of what happened last night.

      He couldn’t go back to Shinjuku, he couldn’t be the same man he became when he tried to pretend he wasn’t Shido’s son.

      No, he needed to hold the tension in his form and find another way to let it out.

      He needed to be something other than the detective prodigy Akechi.

      Allowing Akira to call him Goro seemed as good a place to start as any.

      That being said, he didn’t protest when Akira managed to corral him into the bathhouse across the street, after having checked to make sure there were no other bathers. After all, Goro was visibly injured and if anyone where to see him in any state of undress, they were sure to have questions that he couldn’t answer. And if word to get back to his father, then — Goro couldn’t imagine the consequences.

      Akira, of course, had offered him a spare change of clothes he found in a box he, “basically lived out of,” on one of the shelves in Leblanc’s attic. In the meantime, the barista said he would wash Goro’s clothes in the laundromat right next to the bathhouse to ward off any potential bathers, until Goro was finished.

      When he met Akira at the laundromat, Goro noted that the shirt Akira loaned him was a little tight across his shoulders. The pants, which would have been clearly loose on Akira, hugged his form around the rear and calves. Cycling and bouldering had made his body like this, he briefly registered, though he hasn’t really had the time for either recently.

      Briefly, he considered why his workouts fell to the wayside. Granted, he had been busy, but he couldn't afford forgetting that he needed to be strong. After all, despite how the coat he wore so often made him appear dainty, his strength was nothing to laugh at.

      Considering his weakened state from the previous night, a small part of him found it reassuring to note how he appeared with all the imperfections marring his skin hidden, the sheer power of his body on display. Then, with his hair pulled back and a spare pair of Akira’s now confirmed fake glasses donning his features, he looked like a different person.

      He didn’t hate how the person in the mirror almost looked like a stranger.

      But he couldn’t put off asking Akira why he wore them.

      “I suspected your wore false lenses, but might I ask why?” Goro asked.

      “You know what they say,” Akira said, a soft laugh escaping him. “The eyes are the windows to the soul and all that.”

      Goro hummed, considering his response.

      “I would say you don’t strike me as the superstitious type,” Goro commented, “but then again, you do keep the company of a black cat.”

      Akira simply shrugged, still smiling as he said, “I need all the good luck I can get.”

      Then, he went to the bathhouse and Goro followed after, if only to wash the clothes Akira had been wearing before because those jeans from his first year he’d taken to change into where in no way going to be comfortable. When Akira was finished and presented with his much more comfortable clothes, his gratitude in how the corners of his mouth lifted in a smile and the light flush of his features. The heat from the bath still fogging up his glasses.

      He should have left them in Leblanc.

      When Akira bid Goro to follow him back into Leblanc, the detective could find no real reason to decline. And when he urged Goro to eat leftover curry alongside him, he thought it would be rude to refuse.

      When Goro stood and gathered their dishes, spotting the sink in the back of Leblanc, Akira opened his mouth to protest. A cutting glare from the elder left him raising his hands in mock surrender, but Akira smiled regardless.

      Then, they retired to the attic, if only so that Akira could elaborate on the meeting he’s been arranging between Goro and Sojiro’s charge.

      “The person I want you to meet — Futaba Sakura is her name,” Akira explained.

      “Sojiro’s foster child, correct?” Goro asked.

      “Yeah, but when you asked why I thought you should meet her —,” Akira said, pausing briefly, “I didn’t tell you everything.”

      “You lied,” Goro replied, surprising himself with the lack of accusation in his tone.

      It was not a question, nor an attack. It was a simple observation.

      Despite whatever history he might have with being misled, given his state last night, Goro could understand any reservations Akira might have had in divulging any more information than strictly necessary. Akira wanting Goro to meet Sojiro’s charge could not be for reasons as simple as mirrored traits. There was something more to it, but he had not yet enough information to deduce those reasons.

      Regardless, Goro pressed the lid tight against the anger that bubbled in his chest at having been decieved.

      He was far too accustomed to having all the cards at his disposal.

      “It was a — calculated omission,” Akira explained. He tone was careful, deliberate, as if he expected Goro to take his admission poorly. “Think of it as how you leave out details, points of contention that you think I wouldn’t notice.”

      In response, Goro smiled and chose to utilize some of the anger spilling past that carefully closed lid. His grin was sharp and while he didn’t glare at Akira, his eyes were dangerous. In truth, it was all too easy to conjure a response that was sure to wound his companion.

      “A calculated omission?” He asked politely. “I’m afraid you misjudged me, Kurusu-kun,” He addressed the barista with his surname, a pointed gesture to imply distance. “I don’t keep my head down to avoid conflict, after all. I omit information if only so that I might utilize it to best of my abilities.” Goro also knew it was in poor taste to reference Akira’s first year, when he’d been powerless to speak of Kamoshida’s abuse towards Mishima, when he had been forced to watch those around him suffer at the hands of spiteful adults. “My calculated omissions are never conjured from fear.”

      “Why don’t you tell that to your panic attack last night? — Or to your late nights in Shinjuku? — Tell it to your friends who you won’t even let call you by your first name.” Akira replied, tone just as sharp as Goro’s, eyes veiled by lenses that hid far more than the detective was comfortable with. “You’re terrified, Goro.” He paused and sighed, eyes trailing to the floor before meeting Goro’s again. The detective could only discern something akin to determination alight in Akira’s gaze. “— And my name is Akira. Don’t forget it.”

      Goro wondered if he would have stopped speaking there had he been able to see the true extent of the fire in Akira’s eyes. Instead, he kept provoking Akira, despite not knowing what he was trying to prove in getting a reaction out of the man.

      “Oh, please,” Goro said, rolling his eyes. “Pardon me for putting my life on the line for the sake of this country, Kurusu.” He titled his chin up, red eyes glaring down at Akira, the few centimeters he had on his companion stretching to kilometers. “Tell me, what fear do you see in looking your death directly in eyes and not faltering?”

      Goro could tell Akira was close to losing his patience. Of course, even a saint could not tolerate the son of devil for long. It was too easy to note. It was in the subtle clench of Akira’s jaw and the way his palms closed into fists. It was the rigid line of his spine. Akira was reacting. It seemed as if Goro was going to get exactly what he wanted after all, that he had self-sabotaged one of the very few connections that seemed to matter to him. But Akira, of course — was always full of surprises.

      “No one asked you to be a martyr,” Akira said, through gritted teeth.

      Something in Goro fractured. Anger and despair mixed together, tumultuous as they breached all barriers he had so carefully constructed in their way. Before Goro knew it, he had the collar of Akira’s shirt wound in his grasp and had forced the other man forward, their faces only centimeters apart as he met the Akira’s gaze.

      “No one ever gave me a choice!” Goro shouted.

      Despite the lingering pain dancing along his abdomen, his breaths came out heavy and his hands refused to relinquish their hold against the fabric between their fingertips. Goro didn’t back down, red tinting his vision as he confronted Akira with this terrible truth.

      And to his merit, Akira remained steadfast.

      The two men stood there, stock still — one desperate and the other neutral — as a silence reigned over them. Goro’s breath found its natural rhythm once more and he was struck with the realization of what he had just confessed. Goro knew now, just as Akira did, that he never felt as if he had a choice. Of course, he had convinced himself over the years that he had chosen this path, but in retrospect, couldn’t it just as easily be said that he had been forced into an impossible set of circumstances by mere happenstance? Or had it been fate? Either way, Goro had been left with only one choice: survive or follow his mother to the grave. And at the end, Goro had chosen to survive, damn the consequences.

      When Goro’s anger waned, the grip he held against Akira’s shirt faltered. When Akira broke the silence, his hand came to rest upon Goro’s, whose fingers were still loosely curled into the fabric of his shirt.

      “That’s the point, Goro.” Akira said, fingertips resting on Goro’s pulse point, his hand holding a loose grasp around the detective’s wrist. His voice was quiet, a striking contrast to Goro’s previous outburst. “I want to give you a choice. You deserve that.”

      “You?” Goro said, as his gaze dropped to the floor, even as he practically leaned into Akira. His lips curled into a resign smile and the laugh that escaped him was mirthless. “ —You’re offering me a choice?”

      Goro briefly recalled his previous accusation against Akira. The detective had alleged that Akira was so bold as to claim dominion over his body. He also recalled how wrong he had been. In Shinjuku, Akira had meet the real Goro Akechi, a wreck in a bar in the Red Light District, torn between doing another line of coke in bathroom or speaking to a bartender with unreadable eyes.

      “Just don’t — push me away.” Akira said, flashing a tentative smile at Goro. “Don’t you know it won’t work?” Goro hated how his own expression softened in turn.

      “You are a fool, Akira Kurusu,” Goro said.

      Akira’s gaze faltered. He seemed to look past Goro, even as he guided the detective’s arm back to his side and gently took a step back. Goro would never admit that the space he placed between them seemed like a chasm, nor would he confess how Akira’s light tone simultaneously made it easier and harder to breathe.

      “Yeah, I guess I am.” Akira had said.

      “What was it, though?” Goro asked, “What did you keep from me?”

      “Okay, I’m sorry —,” Akira replied. His eyes wouldn’t meet Goro’s and as they had come to know one another, Goro recognized this Akira, the one who wouldn’t meet his eyes and smiled to hide his discomfort. He was nervous. A small part of the detective didn’t blame him, considering his previous behavior. “Just, don’t run. Just stay — take sixty seconds and think.”

      Goro swallowed hard and felt the familiar chords of anxiety buzzing beneath his skin. He forced a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

      “You sound as if this information is life-altering,” Goro teased.

      “It is,” Akira confirmed, the line of this mouth growing thin, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

      Goro unconsciously ground his teeth together, a nasty habit he’d started to form that was sure to ruin his smile. This ‘life-altering’ information Akira was to disclose to him had the detective on edge. What had he missed? What could Akira possibly know about his life that he had missed? What could Futaba Sakura have to do with this? Despite this, he nodded, hoping that was all the confirmation Akira needed.

      When his companion remained quiet, Goro nodded again, repeating a silent mantra in his head. He could withstand whatever Akira was intending to tell him. He could endure. After all, surviving was one thing he was good at.

      “Fine,” Goro replied, taking a deep breath. “I agree to these terms.”

      “Alright,” Akira said, “Goro — Futaba Sakura’s father is Masayoshi Shido.” He paused for but a moment before continuing. “She’s your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, here's me, being that guy, who posts updates only once a month. RIP. I don't think I'm 100% satisfied with this chapter, but I hope you guys like it, anyway!
> 
> Remember to hit me up on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) or in the comments with your thoughts. It really helps keep me motivated to write! <3


	21. the blood of the covenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goro Akechi makes a new connection and he mends an old one.

**— family **

      [ **fam** - _uh_ -lee,  **fam** -lee]

      noun, plural fam·i·lies.

      1\. a basic social unit consisting of parents and their children, considered as a group, whether dwelling together or not:

      2\. any group of persons closely related by blood, as parents, children, uncles, aunts, and cousins:

      3\. Chiefly British. approved lineage, especially noble, titled, famous, or wealthy ancestry:

      4\. a group of people who are generally not blood relations but who share common attitudes, interests, or goals and, frequently, live together:

* * *

       Given a basic understanding of the common definitions of what most described as a family, one could argue that Goro Akechi’s status fell well within the confines of the descriptions provided by options one, two, or three. He supposed option four was also viable, if one asked the right person, but that was neither here nor there.

       Despite this, the truth of the matter was that Goro could barely recall what it felt like to have a family, let alone be a part of one.

       Certainly, his biological father held a rather influential role in his life, but their relationship was hardly typical of that for a father and son. All Masayoshi Shido and Goro Akechi shared was blood and power, a lineage deemed worthy of leadership by the masses. 

       They were fools, the lot of them.

       The public was just as naive as Goro had been, when Shido first came to _rescue_ him from the orphanage. As a child, Goro had been overjoyed to learn that his father was coming for him, to know that he was wanted. Despite recalling the awful things his mother had once said of his father, being without parents was something he was relentlessly bullied for growing up. Between his school days and the many foster homes he bounced between, Goro believed no one would ever want him and in retrospect, he understood how that gave Shido the perfect opportunity to strike.

       Was it wrong to have wanted to be loved?

       Was he being punished for having been happy?

       As Shido’s ward, Goro learned all too quickly that every word out of his mother’s mouth had been true. His father did not want him at all. Goro could only imagine that the trail between his mother and Shido was too obvious to erase and that the monster in the form of a man had chosen to twist the discovery of a biological son to his advantage.

       He wanted to forge Goro into a pawn.

       Had Goro not been so bright, the atrocities forced upon him would have been tenfold. He was grateful that being a teen with a ‘drive’ for justice attached to Shido’s name was enough. Goro was surprised when Shido hadn’t plastered his name over Goro’s, allowing Akechi to mark him for life. As he aged, he learned the choice was a clever reminder. To Goro, the name was a symbol that he was forever ostracized, and to the public, it was a sign that Shido had rescued Goro after a tireless search for his late-fiancé and son.

       Goro was painted as a happy ending.

       There were no such things as happy endings.

       It struck him now, as he was to meet his sister, that he missed his mother. He wondered what guidance she could offer him, if she could offer him any.

       After all, his mother had been his only true family. Then, it became the cruel foster system. Then, it was Shido — who didn’t even pretend to care for Goro, unless it could benefit him. It should also be noted that Goro never had real friends. Beyond Sae Niijima and Yuuki Mishima, there was Akira Kurusu, but even Goro had trouble assigning the other man a concrete role. 

       He was digressing, of course. It was to be expected, considering the matter at hand revolved around this unfathomable concept of family. How was Goro supposed to the deal with the fact that he had a sibling? — That he had a sister?

       Her name was Futaba Sakura.

       And when he first laid eyes on her, he was awestruck. 

       She was beautiful, in a quiet way, and Goro was struck with a compulsion he recognized, one that he thought he lost sight of long ago.

       Protect.

       The edges of such a compulsion had risen to the surface with the threat against Mishima and when Akira was faced with Nakano’s men in that warehouse in Shibuya.

       But this was different. 

       This was real.

       It wasn’t fleeting.

       She hid, ever so slightly, behind the taller form of Akira.

       He wondered, if, when he was younger, had he the chance, maybe he would have done the same.

       The surge of emotion flooding him was the same that had led him to take action when he learned of Mishima and Suzui’s suffering. It mirrored the fire in his veins that had been set ablaze when he had learned of Madarame’s corruption and negligence. And Goro saw himself reflected in forms of Akira and Futaba, how he had stood between Haru and her arranged marriage in the form of a man who had no business entertaining a relationship with a minor.

       A shield.

       It was striking and Goro was forced the consider the implications of Akira’s motivation in bringing him here, placing him face to face with someone who shared his blood. Had Akira anticipated he would react like this? Did Akira think that Goro seeing the potential for something as unconditional as a family would remind him of why he made the choices he had?

       That despite Goro’s goal, that he had acted with the express purpose of protecting others, that he had only disguised it as personal gain so that Shido would allow it.

       Perhaps, Goro did not simply, like his father before him, take.

       Perhaps Goro also had the capacity to give.

       Goro’s eyes hadn’t left the scene before him, and the seconds he remained quiet felt like an eternity.

       All he knew was that he wanted to be one this girl hid behind and that he _could be_ the one she hid behind. Unless, of course, he eradicated the reason she felt the need to hide in the first place.

       _God, this hurt._

       But Goro thought that he was smiling. He must be, considering how when his gaze faltered, meeting Akira’s — both red and grey eyes veiled ever so slightly by false lenses — that Akira was smiling right back at him.

       Then, his attention returned to what he could see of Futaba past her human shield, striking red hair and mahogany eyes.

       His breath caught in his throat.

       They had the same eyes.

       They were his father’s eyes.

       But they were hers, too.

       “Goro Akechi,” Akira said, breaking the silence with a slight laugh. Goro imagined this must have been the second time he said this, because they certainly had not entered her room to only stand there for a few moments. “Meet Futaba Sakura — your sister.”

       Goro knew that Shido had to, at the very least, be aware of her existence. It was a dangerous thing to consider, but given Shido’s track record, Goro wouldn’t be surprised if there were plenty of other children without a father because he’d been found first.

       After all, Shido only needed one son to create a legacy.

       He only needed one puppet.

       “Ah,” Goro said, realizing he’d been quiet perhaps a moment too long. He bowed slightly, though it was more a inclination of his head than anything. “A pleasure, Sakura-san.”

       He noticed one of her hands seize the sleeve of Akira’s shirt. A quick tug of the fabric had Akira canting his head to look at her and Futaba rose to her toes to speak quietly into Akira’s ear. Goro tried to keep the polite smile pulling at his lips neutral, but he was anxious. This girl had yet to react beyond using Akira as a human shield between herself and Goro, the interloper he was. Akira stifled a laugh, before turning back to Goro.

       Perhaps Goro should have been comforted by Akira’s smile when he went to speak. He would have, if the next words out of his mouth had not been, “Where did you find this nerd?”

       Goro felt his mask fall askew. The tight line of his jaw went lax and his mouth fell slightly agape. The detective quickly regained his composure, though, only stuttering slightly when he asked, “N—nerd?”

       Akira’s mischievous grin softened into something Goro might have called fondness, if he had believed anyone capable of looking at him that way.

       “I think she means the formalities,” Akira said, looking over his shoulder toward Futaba. “That right, Futaba?”

       Goro immediately jumped to her defense, damning the compulsion even as he could not control it. “I’m certain she’ll speak to me when she chooses to, Akira,” He claimed, tone a touch to sharp to be teasing. “You need not prompt her.”

       When Akira’s attention returned to him, Goro quickly averted his gaze.

       He swallowed hard, anxiety peaking as he imagined himself to have overstepped his bounds. Guessing the extent Akira’s relationship with Futaba would only exacerbate said anxiety, so he forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. Akira was acting as an older brother would. He had taken the role Goro hadn’t known he needed to fill.

       The attack or backlash Goro expected didn’t come. Instead, Goro heard his companion say, “You’re right,” before he looked back over to the see the smile pulling at Akira’s lips.

       It was as if Goro hadn’t just crossed some invisible line. 

       Part of the detective considered that perhaps he hadn’t.

       With Akira, it was almost impossible to tell.

       Looking for a distraction, Goro said the first thing that came to mind, “I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I comment on my surroundings.”

       “I didn’t give her much notice,” Akira said.

       “Oh,” Goro responded, understanding how such a statement could come across crass. They were in Futaba’s room, who he had just met, and it did sound as if he were about to cast judgement. That was not what he meant though, so he quickly explained, “I meant the Featherman memorabilia,” directing his audience’s attention to the figurines displayed alongside Futaba’s desk.

       Part of Goro despised how his immediate reaction to any sort of accusation was diversion. Being misjudged was hardly his goal. He hoped his tactic went unnoticed, given how how he was supposed to be making a good impression on Futaba who already thought he was strangely formal. That assumption stood true, of course, only if Akira’s parroting of her words was accurate.

       He cursed himself for questioning Akira’s intentions.

       He was supposed to be trying here.

       Goro only allowed himself to breathe easy when his approach was received with what he deemed an appropriate reaction: interest.

       “You’re into Featherman?” Futaba said, stepping from behind Akira as she addressed Goro for the first time since they had been introduced.

       Goro forged an oath with himself that he was going to attempt to be genuine with her. This girl, who was his blood relative, one he could protect if he could accomplish his goal.

       To do so, he found himself leaning into her prior judgement.

       “I suppose I am the _nerd_ you’ve claimed me to be,” Goro said, smiling. He stepped toward one of the walls in Futaba’s room, noting a digital piano. He looked to Futaba and then to the instrument. “May I —?” Goro asked, gesturing to the keyboard.

       She nodded.

       “You play?” Akira asked with a sudden interest Goro had yet to hear in his voice before.

       “Not for a while, I haven’t,” He replied. “My — uh— Shido thought it was best that I have some musical talent, I suppose,” He explained, sitting before the row of black and white keys. “Attending your son’s middle school recitals must make one appear as some sort of family man.”

       Red eyes found the switch to activate the keyboard, and he turned it on.

       “So — he’s really like that?” Futaba asked.

       “Yes,” Goro replied. He suddenly felt as if keeping up appearances wasn’t all they were talking about. His hands rested above the keys, fingers trembling. “Unfortunately, he really is.”

       “Sojiro and Akira,” Futaba said, slowly approaching Goro, “They told me about him — but I guess, seeing you — makes it more real.”

       “I ask that you not pity me,” Goro said, smiling, the rehearsed plastic smile that cut hard at the corners of his mouth.

       “I don’t,” Futaba said, reaching his side. “— Really.”

       Akira moved forward then and the two framed him, one on either side of Goro where he sat at the piano, having yet to play. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, not until Akira rested a hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention.

       “Go on—,” Akira encouraged, inclining his head ever so slightly, grey eyes glancing from Goro to the keyboard.

       The keys felt foreign under his fingertips. Ballads had long since ceased to dance under the guidance of these hands. They were too accustomed to lines trailing from their wrists, the grip he’s trained them to hold around the necks of bottles, the hilts of guns.

       It was almost intrinsic now, how they shook.

       It was a striking contrast to the grasp of a politician’s hands and charismatic waves to the masses. 

       It took him far too long to realize these hands never truly belonged to him.

       They belonged to the nation, his father, the public, but never to him. They belonged to men and women he carved his way through in a desperate attempt to find someone worthy of owning them, because honestly, the last person who was charged with their care left them shaking.

       They haven’t stopped shaking.

       Someone needed to own his hands, to completely possess them — to take precedence over the greedy claims already placed upon them and the ones that would undoubtedly follow.

       Deep down, he didn’t trust himself to do it. 

       Despite this, the notes of a cover of the Featherman theme resounded throughout the space, his hands damned to going through the motions.

       He thought they were damned to continue shaking.

       Goro stopped playing after a moment, looking back to Akira, who smiled before nodding towards Futaba.

       She smiled too, but the sadness in her eyes spoke volumes. She didn’t comment on the theme, though. And he wondered if she had taken after Akira in some respect, considering how what she said next surprised him.

       “I did some research when Sojiro first told me about him,” Futaba admitted. Goro nodded, a silent indicator that she continue. “After what happened with my mom — and when he started appearing on TV…” She trailed off.

       “What did you find?” Goro asked, half terrified and half hopeful.

       Maybe she knew. 

       Maybe she could understand.

       Maybe he wouldn’t have to admit it.

       “A lot of things I wish I didn’t,” She replied.

       “Was there —,” Goro paused, “anything about me?”

       “ — Nothing,” She said.

       Goro swallowed hard, noting the way Futaba had hesitated before answering him. The minuscule pause told him that she was lying. If Akira was half as sharp as Goro thought him to be, he knew Futaba was lying as well.

       For now, they both seem to let it go.

       And it was far beyond a superficial belief that Goro thought he’d rather not know.

* * *

        A few days passed and Yuuki Mishima, who Goro had left on read more times than he could count recently, existed as a problem the detective dreaded confronting.

       As they sat across from one another, having chosen Leblanc as their meeting location, both men kept casting glances towards Akira. Manning the store, he seemed utterly indifferent to this encounter that would certainly change the nature of Mishima and Goro’s relationship from this moment onwards.

       Goro clenched his jaw as his gaze caught Akira’s, unwilling to allow his expression to contort into something that was dangerously close to fondness. No, his mouth would not curve ever so slightly because he knew Akira was listening intently, despite appearing unperturbed.

       He shifted his attention to Yuuki Mishima, the slouch of his shoulders and how he seemed to curl into himself far too similar to how the man appeared when they first crossed paths. Despite knowing Mishima’s eyes were glued to the table rather than his countenance, Goro did his best to maintain a neutral expression. He, after all, was responsible for this rift between them.

       Goro couldn’t allow himself to linger on the thought that Mishima would be better off if the detective chose to never mend it.

       “Shall I begin?” Goro asked, instead.

       “Yeah,” Mishima replied, raising his gaze to meet Goro’s. “Go ahead.”

       Goro swallowed hard when his eyes met Mishima’s. The younger man looked dispassionate, the enthusiasm the detective revered in this young man cast from his gaze. And Goro was responsible for its disappearance. He was the one who had done this to one of the very few people he considered a true friend.

       Maybe he really was a monster.

       What was it he was apologizing for again? Was it for nearly forcing himself on Mishima? Was it for lying about his circumstances for all this time? Was it for shattering the illusion of himself he’d so carefully crafted? Or was it a twisted amalgamation of all of these things and perhaps more?

       “I was out of line,” Goro began, “when I — I understand that I attempted to force myself upon you.” Goro bowed his ever so slightly where he sat, the gesture apologetic.

       Therefore, he found himself surprised when Mishima suddenly righted his own posture, and shook his head.

       “No, I mean —,” Mishima said, “Me, too. I,” He paused, trailing off, eyes suddenly more interested in the walls of Leblanc than the detective before him. “— I was out of line.”

       “I’m sorry?” Goro replied, arching a brow. He chanced a glance toward Akira, who seemed startled enough to briefly lose his rhythm in the ruse of polishing the endless line of mugs, if only to regain it a moment later. The pause was barely discernible and if Goro hadn’t been looking for a reaction from the barista, he would have missed it. 

       Akira had taken notice, Goro noted, but he had not deemed the statement problematic enough to require intervention. Goro’s gaze returned to Mishima as quickly as it left him.

       “For a second, I guess,” Mishima continued, head bowed, mirroring Goro’s previous posture. “I didn’t want to stop you.”

       Hearing Mishima more or less confess something of this nature — an attraction to Goro — was startling. Yet, the man across from Goro was not flush with embarrassment at the discovery of his interest. No, his expression mirrored shame.

       Mishima felt guilty.

       Despite the shock of such a revelation, Goro’s expression remained neutral. Mishima was a fool on multiple counts, it seemed. He not only wanted to befriend Goro Akechi, but he wanted more. Even after learning Goro was lying to him, hiding something so similar to his own past from him, Mishima had not shied from nor was he wasn’t disgusted by his own feelings. No, it seemed he was only revolted by his own actions. Mishima felt guilty for wanting what Goro was not freely giving. 

       Goro nodded, a soft sigh parting his lips.

       Mishima was truly a marvel, that much would never change. And as much as Goro did not want to further hurt him, Goro knew he would never able to offer him the type of relationship he seemed to have wanted.

       “I see,” Goro replied.

       “I would never take advantage of you, Akechi,” Mishima said then, tone insistent. “With how things are, I know it’s — uh — hopelessly optimistic to believe that we live in a world where we can have what we want — but you gave me that back.” Goro could hear the anxiety in Mishima’s voice, with how quickly he spoke. Goro felt the edges of his mouth curve ever so slightly at the familiar sound. “Hope — I mean. That someday, it won’t be like this. When it’s yours and Haru’s time, I just know it will be different.”

       “Mishima…I,” Goro started.

       “Not finished,” Mishima interrupted him, the phrase a little sharp. The younger man flinched, an instinct he couldn’t seem to shake since suffering at the hands of Kamoshida for speaking up. Goro simply waited and after a few moments, Mishima smiled ever so slightly. “I mean, I just — need to finish while I have the guts.”

       “By all means,” Goro responded, the small smile still pulling at his lips.

       “I don’t know everything that’s going on, Akechi,” Mishima continued, “but I do know what it’s like to feel powerless.” He paused and took a deep breath. His eyes met Goro’s with a determination that the detective had yet to observe in the other man. “And when I didn’t immediately put the breaks on what was happening, I — I became just as bad as he was.”

       Mishima stopped speaking. Goro knew neither of them needed him to continue to understand what he was getting at. It truly did not take a detective prodigy to know that Mishima saw his actions as a mirror to Kamoshida’s. Mishima had been in a position of power. He had been someone Goro had looked to for help and he felt as if he had taken advantage of Goro’s weaker state. 

       The idea caused a rush of rage to boil his blood.

       He quickly suppressed it, casting a glance towards Akira and reminding himself that he had been weak, that he did need help, and that he couldn’t get angry about Mishima clearly stating such a fact. 

       He couldn’t further damage one of the only relationships that seemed to matter to him.

       In the moment Goro took to process Mishima’s speech and quell his own emotions, it struck him that the other man had been speaking less about Goro and more about himself. Mishima had been crumbling under the implications of behaving just as his abuser would have. What he was saying to Goro now, was really what he was telling himself.

       They were really far too similar for their own good.

       “You did, though!” Goro stated, a little more forcefully than he originally intended. Mishima looked at him, eyes wide. Goro lowered his voice, then, the corner of his mouth curved into a smile that was far too gentle to be artificial. “I am to understand that you did stop me.”

       “Actually —,” Mishima said, an equally genuine smile pulling at his lips, “We both kinda did.”

       And just like that, something shifted between them and Goro could breathe again. He could hardly recall the incident of which they spoke, but knowing that he also had drawn some metaphorical line between himself and Mishima was comforting.

       If he hadn’t truly cared for Mishima, he knew he wouldn’t have stopped.

       Maybe Goro wasn’t a monster after all.

       “I see —,” Goro bowed his head ever so slightly. “I still apologize.” The detective raised his gaze to meet Mishima’s once more. “I not only attempted to assault you, but I also placed the burden of my well-being on your shoulders.” He carefully considered his next words, wondering when it became so difficult to apologize for putting those he cared for in such difficult positions, wondering when he allowed others to get close enough for things to get this dangerous. “I will — take care not to indulge anymore.”

       Goro knew with more clarity than ever before, that Mishima should not be forced to risk the red light district for him anymore. The red hoodie Goro didn’t take with him when he left Leblanc days before was evident enough of his conviction.

       It seemed he had unwittingly woven bonds he wouldn’t forsake. His pawns were too important to sacrifice. Part of him wondered why he ever thought they weren’t. Every piece on his chest board was a tool too win. He needed to end this game before anything else was lost. For knew his goal was within his grasp. 

       Shinjuku was a distraction and a meaningless one at that.

       He had to abandon it.

       He couldn’t lose sight of taking Shido down now.

       _“I won’t need this anymore,” Goro had said, a soft smile pulling at his lips when he refused to take the hoodie with him after meeting Futaba the first time._

       _The following day, Akira had invited himself over, to check on Goro’s progress per Dr. Takemi’s order. (Or so he said.) The detective was unsurprised that Akira was wearing said hoodie and was even less shocked to discover his companion had left it behind._

       _It was a gesture of trust._

       _It smelled like Leblanc._

       Not when so many other things were clouding his vision.

       “You’re not a burden, Akechi,” Mishima said, a welcome distraction to a potentially dangerous train of thought.

       Goro couldn’t allow himself to linger on why exactly he dubbed such train of thought ‘dangerous.’ The detective shook his head, dispelling the notion as well as Mishima’s assertion in a single gesture. Given all the suffering he had wrought, it was simply unfathomable to believe he was anything but an inconvenience.

       “I wish —,” He confessed, quietly. “I wish I believed as much.” 

       Goro didn’t need to look at Mishima to know the other man was frowning. He could hardly imagine the expression Akira would be wearing if he were to cast his gaze in the direction of the barista. That, of course, would be if Akira had heard him at all.

       “Guess I’ll —,” Mishima said, forcing a smile. The gesture reminded Goro so terribly much of himself. “I guess I’ll just have to stick with you until you do.” Mishima’s grin turned genuine then, and that fire Goro thought he had extinguished in his eyes was reignited.

       Mishima let out a soft laugh, as did Goro.

       A silence settled over them.

       “Mishima?” Goro asked, breaking it.

       “Uh, yeah?” Mishima replied.

       “Would it be —?” Goro stopped and thought of what Akira had said only days ago, that Goro could have died and Akira would have been the only one have called him by his first name. He needed to — wanted to — change that. “Would it be too much of a bother to ask you to call me Goro?”

       In response, the detective swore he never saw Mishima smile so brightly. The younger cast a glance toward Akira then. Mishima didn’t give Goro a chance to guess what he missed in the brief interaction, turning back to him as quickly as he looked away.

       “I — I think I can swing it,” He stuttered, scratching the back of his next. Mishima paused a moment longer than he seemed to have intended to, an amused huff escaping him. “And — you can call me Yuuki, if you’d like.”

       “It seems we have deal then, Yuuki,” Goro said, testing the feel of Mishima’s given name on his tongue.

       “So, Goro…” Mishima — no, Yuuki — said, seeming to do the same. “— Wanna hear the latest case I found for you on the fan-site?”

       Goro pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips as he responded. “If you say it is my own then I will never speak to you again.”

       He actually heard Akira laugh from where he stood behind the counter. A quick glance towards the bar proved as much, Akira not really as quick to school his expression as he had been before.

       “No —,” Yuuki said, looking over towards Akira too. “I think Akira and I can agree that you’ll need to work up to that one.”

       “But we’re here for you, when you do,” Akira said then, finally inserting himself into the interaction. They both were looking at him, but Akira’s eyes seemed to settle on Goro’s. The detective couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his features then, even if he wanted to.

       “Thank you,” Goro said, bowing slightly. “I — hate to burden you with this.”

       “Now,” Akira said, rounding the counter to sit on one of the stools before them. “What did Yuuki just say?”

       Suddenly, Goro understood why Akira had introduced him to Futaba only days before and why the barista had been so insistent on Goro mending the rift between himself and Yuuki. This was that ‘choice’ Akira wanted to give him. It was that tantalizing offer that hung right before Goro, if only so that he might take it.

       Both Yuuki Mishima and Akira Kurusu wanted to be ‘there’ for Goro.

       They wanted to be the support system Goro never had. 

       But there was a small voice in the back of Goro’s mind that insisted, that regardless of their actions and their words, that he was just reading way too far into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dudes, I'm not dead. I just took a little bit of an unprompted hiatus from writing to focus on cosplay for a bit. The first part of this chapter had been written for a while, but the last half was a bit of a struggle to push out. Anyway, I'm halfway through Chapter 22 and hope to have it out within the next two weeks. Thanks for sticking with me through the wait! I hope you enjoyed this update!
> 
> Also, I love Yuuki Mishima and he deserves a buddy who calls him 'Yuuki.'
> 
> As always, feel free to leave a comment with your thoughts or find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/amgedpha) and let's talk about it!


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